He’s more than an actor, you know. He’s an author, too. He writes novels for us Gen X-ers. Books about roustabout dudes and the girls they love but can’t hold onto. Books filled with booze, and brawls, and babes with boobs. So I was intrigued when I heard he’d be giving a reading at a bookstore downtown. I got tickets to hear him read, maybe get his autograph for my little sister who had loved him ever since he played that wimpy boy on “Dead Poet’s Society.”
I went with my girlfriend, Chloe, who didn’t think one thing or the other on Ethan Hawke other than he had a striking resemblance to Chip, the guy who served her coffee every morning at Latte Da on Westchester Avenue.

Beforehand we got a bite to eat at this Panamanian bistro. Chloe had read about it and I was game because I had no idea what a Panamanian bistro would serve. Mexican-fare, pretty much, except that it was Panamanian instead. Blessed, perhaps, by Panamanian friars.

After eating we were strolling downtown to the bookstore when we were about to pass this scruffy guy standing in front of a flower stand. He looked homeless.

“You need some money?” I asked, shifting my Hawke novel (to get signed) from one hand to the other to get at my wallet. He seemed like an okay homeless guy, not like some.

“No.”

“You want some food or something? That’s this Panamanian bistro right down the street.”

“What? You think I’m homeless? No, I’m Ethan Hawke.” He then philosophized about the plight of America’s working poor for twenty minutes. I didn’t understand a word.