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Fuckin’ celebrities.

Adam muttered the words with a sort of glee, the very fact that he could say such a thing a privilege, a gift. In truth, he hoped the old man shining his shoes was injected with just enough curiosity to press further on Adam’s joyful provocation. The old man wore a shiny silver nametag on his lapel, but Adam struggled to read the man’s name from atop his perch.

Nametag continued buffing Adam’s brown leather boots, seemingly unaware that his customer was speaking at all.

Adam had never actually done this before, and let Nametag know he was stripping him of his shoe-shining virginity. Didn’t know these stands still existed if I’m being honest, buddy. Thought shoe-shining was only for old men in old movies. You know, the ones wearing top hats and holding the newspaper up so high that their arms absolutely have to get sore.

It occurred to Adam that he was also sore, mostly in his back, and he started to wish he spent his fifteen dollars on a massage instead. He could see a massage stand across the terminal, a pretty girl leaning against a bed, tapping away on her cell phone without a customer in sight. Adam wondered if she would like to hear about the fuckin’ celebrities he met whilst working in his uncle’s pizza shop in L.A. this summer, but also worried he wouldn’t be able to get a word out amidst the inevitable sighs and groans any good massage would elicit.

An old man like me, Nametag then said. Adam had nearly forgotten where he was, as if he had floated on over to Ms. Massage, her hands already working the knots out of his back. Adam felt himself easing up as his imaginary massage continued. Some serious bang for my buck, he thought. Two for the price of one.

Well not like you, Adam clarified. You’re the one shining the shoes. Say, you got any newspapers around here anyhow? Might as well play the part. I could use a distraction too, Adam said, his eyes occasionally catching Ms. Massage in their purview. She now rested her chin on the edge of the bed, her back outstretched, as if she could use a massage herself. It was an interesting thought, one Adam had never really considered. Who massages the masseuse?

Hey, who shines your shoes? Anybody? Adam asked the question like he was looking for a recommendation, like Nametag could lose his business at any given moment.

I suppose I’m a bit of a virgin myself, Nametag said. You know, I shined Antonio Banderas’ shoes once, real nice guy. Sat right where you’re sitting. He ever come into that pizza shop of yours?

Adam was a little ticked that it took the old man this long to engage him on the whole celebrity thing, but he was desperate to talk to somebody about it, and his sister wasn’t answering her phone.

Nope, Adam responded. That’s pretty cool though, he said, rubbing the black leather of the seat beneath him, as if it ceremonially bonded him and Antonio. The leather was warm from Adam’s butt. He placed his hand on the armrest, where the leather was much cooler. He alternated between touching the two areas for a while, each one providing relief from the other. It soon occurred to Adam that he was basically touching his ass, so he transitioned to the armrest one last time and left his hand there, letting the leather grow warm there too.

I met Adam Sandler though, he said. It was only over the phone, but it was still him. Told him we had the same name, to which he responded that we forgot his side of anchovies. I never really understood the whole anchovy thing. Fish? With cheese and tomato sauce? Fish, really?

I like anchovies, Nametag said. Nice and salty. My name’s Adam too by the way.

Adam glanced down at Nametag, unsure if he should believe him, as if he had a weekly meeting with the Council of Adams and he had never seen this old man at any of those gatherings.

Well Adam, old Adam said as he stood up, have a good flight. Where you flying to anyhow? That’s usually the first thing people tell me.

Home, Adam said. Chicago. He was actually going to Milwaukee, but once you rub shoulders with Adam Sandler, you don’t go back to Milwaukee. Chicago sounded much more appropriate.

You’ll see me back here one day though, don’t worry, Adam assured his older namesake. I’ll be dead, old Adam said, letting out a rather uncomfortable laugh. It hadn’t occurred to Adam, but the old man was probably right. They both smiled and nodded at one another, and Adam glanced down at the old man’s hands to see if it was reaching out for a handshake or not. It wasn’t, so Adam kept his hand at his side as well. He picked up his luggage, a small yellow duffle bag nearly bursting at the seams, and headed towards his gate.

His path brought him right past Ms. Massage, who finally had a customer, an almost-as-pretty mother, whose toddler sat off to the side, scratching his crotch with one hand and eating a Butterfinger with the other. You’ll be alive, Adam thought. I’ll see you again one day, Ms. Massage.

He passed the gate for the flight to Chicago, and thought about trying to board. Of course, it wouldn’t work, and would probably make people think he’s a terrorist or something, but what if Adam who shined his shoes was still watching? He didn’t want to be a liar.

Besides, the real lie would be to call Milwaukee home, Adam thought. And what is lying if not acting, like any good L.A. man would do. So when airport staff turned Adam away and pointed him towards gate B22 to Milwaukee, he said there must be a mistake, and put up a fight until airport security escorted him out of the building, past Ms. Massage, past old Adam, and past a little pizza parlor that Adam hoped to God didn’t serve anchovies.

As Adam and his two new friends moved towards the exit, he reached for his butt, remembering its sacred connection to Antonio Banderas. The security guys must have thought he was reaching for something way worse, because they tackled him to the ground and pinned him down.

Maybe this is home after all, Adam thought to himself.