One Thanksgiving morning, six or so years ago, I had to run to the grocery store for some more broth. The lines, expectedly, were long, many people in my same position of needing one last thing. I was second in line and looked at the people behind me, and the last person in line was Danny Glover.
This was a delight but not a surprise; neighbors had told me they’d seen Danny Glover at the campus gym, so I knew he lived in the area. Danny Glover wore a white T-shirt with something printed on it I didn’t take note of. His beard was salt-and-pepper. I made a note to tell Neal when I got home.
Between me and Danny Glover were a straight couple in their 20s, dressed like every other straight couple in San Francisco. The man was short with dark hair and wore fleece. The woman was blond and around his height and wore leggings. They each had wine bottles in their hands.
“Oh my god that guy looks like Danny Glover,” said the woman. She spoke to the man in a regular speaking voice, loud enough for everyone in line to hear.
If the man replied I didn’t hear him, but Danny Glover heard her. I watched as the woman noticed that Danny Glover heard her and was looking at her.
“You look like Danny Glover!” she said a bit louder, so that he could hear.
“I am Danny Glover,” Danny Glover said.
“What?” she said.
“I am Danny Glover.”
“Oh my god what are you doing here?” she asked.
“I live here,” Danny Glover said. “I’ve lived here all my life.”
By this point I had paid and needed to take my items and go. I don’t know what the woman said to Danny Glover after that, if she said anything at all, but I won’t forget the look on Danny Glover’s face when he said, “I’ve lived here all my life.” It was a look of tired hopelessness, the face your face carries when you once again have to tell somebody something they’ll never believe.