When I studied in Spain as a junior in college, there was this bar with a bar-tender who was a nearly perfect double for David, so perfect that I used to joke that it was Bowie doing research for a film role.
Well, it wasn’t Bowie, but I liked to drag friends in to the place, order a drink, just to look at this guy. One evening, he asked me to stay until closing. I brought a friend and we sat and drank so long and so much that her head started to do that drop-and-catch thing that happens when you are falling asleep. I was a drink away from slurring my words.
And this kind man (who looked almost just-like David Bowie) came over, put his hand on my shoulder, and pulled his lips up in an uneven smile. “You will come home with me, yes?”
My friend’s head jerked up and she looked at me with watery blue eyes, then slid off the bar-stool. The seduction of the smile was broken.
I slid off my perch, pulled my shoulders up in a shrug, and just knew. I shook my head, stretched up to give him a kiss on each cheek, and inhaled the sweet smell of beer. This was as close as I was ever going to get to Bowie.