James Dean on Pennsylvania Ave.

My wife and I were in Washington DC last week for our grandson Teddy’s fifth grade graduation.

Arriving at our hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue, we saw a man standing on the sidewalk in front of the church a few doors down. His hair was wild, his face was streaked with dirt, his clothes were filthy and hanging from his emaciated frame. He was talking loudly, as if he was preaching, in a foreign language, waving his arms up and down and pointing his finger repeatedly at a crowd only he could see. There wasn’t anyone within 100 feet.

When we returned to the hotel after dinner, it was drizzling. The man was sleeping in the doorway of the church, using a tarp as a blanket.

The next morning, when I went to the Starbucks next door, he was back on the sidewalk, addressing his invisible congregation. 

As I was waiting for my order, a clean-cut man in his late twenties or early thirties approached. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and was dressed neatly, like he was headed to work.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, sounding almost apologetic.“Would you happen to know when James Dean died?”

“Nineteen fifty-five,” I replied. (Don’t ask me how I know useless information like that. I just do.)

“How old was he?

“He was in his twenties — twenty-five, twenty-six, I’m not exactly sure.”

“I’ve been walking past the guy in front of the church every day for months. I’m almost sure he’s James Dean. He looks exactly like James Dean would look today.”

“I don’t think so.” I said. “James Dean died sixty-nine years ago. Add twenty-five, his age, to that and he’d be ninety-four today. No way that guy is in his nineties. I can’t imagine anyone that age surviving on the streets.” 

“Are you sure about that? He looks just like him, but older.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Not to mention James Dean’s dead. He was driving a Porsche and it crashed.”

“Well then, maybe he’s an angel, sent by God in the form of James Dean.” 

“Uh … maybe.”

He pondered that possibility for a few seconds before asking brightly, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like the guy from The Prince of Tides? What is his name? It’s … it’s on the tip of my tongue but I can’t think of it.”

“Nick Nolte?"

“That’s it!” he said, sounding relieved. “Nick Nolte. You look just like him!”

“A few people told me that in my younger days but not lately.”

"Are you sure you’re not him?”

“I most definitely am not Nick Nolte.”

“You’re one hundred percentive positive you’re not?”

“A hundred and ten percent positive.” 

The barista called my name, I went to the counter to pick up my order and when I turned around, the guy was gone.