The oddness of small fame

           One time when we went to the library, G overheard one librarian at the circulation say to another, “Kristen Randle just entered the building.”  (blink, blink – laugh).  That was back when I’d just been published in New York and had won a couple of pretty good awards.  And it was a nice moment.

            In those days, we’d had a lot to do with our credit union, taking out short term business loans and paying them back in pretty quick time, working our back ends off to do it.  Then G’s brother and his new wife, who were using the same credit union we did (BYU) decided to ask for a loan to buy a washer for their new life together. They filled out the paperwork and then waited nervously to talk to a loan officer.   When their name was called, they sat down on the scary side of a big oak desk and waited again as the officer looked over their application.

            “Now wait,” the officer said, looking at them with his eyes narrowed.  “Are you related to K and G?”  And yes, they just happened to be.  “Then you’re approved,” the officer said, and slapped his seal on the coversheet.  They came home and told us the story.  And that was a nice moment, too.

            A month later we went to the same credit union for some small loan, filled out the paperwork,  waiting in smug confidence for our little talk with the loan officer.  We got this thin faced hair-in-a-bun older lady who directed us into chairs and, frowning, picked up our application.  “You’re self employed,” she said.

            “We’re G and K,” I told her helpfully.

            She gave me a hard look and asked, “Did you bring three years’ tax records with you?”

            My dad once explained to me that he was probably, at that moment in time, the most famous man on the face of the earth among airport builders and designers.  “Till next year,” he said, “when the Tokyo airport gets underway.”  And then he explained that he was famous in a group of about fifty people, because even though millions and millions of people fly out of airports, nobody outside of the actual airport building industry knows who built them.  “Fame,” he said, “is a relative thing.”

            My two best relative stories are these:

            Once, when my mom was visiting my sister in Houston, the RS. teacher one  Sunday used one of my albums of LDS children’s songs in her lesson.  After the meeting was over, I am told, my mom and sister were shoving each other, trying to get down the aisle first to tell the teacher than I belonged to them.  It was silly.  But it was nice: the ten minutes my family thought I was truly hot.

            Oh, and an addendum to that: G’s brother’s oldest son was sitting in school out in Michigan, and he looked at a girl a row over who was sitting there reading – MY book.  “My aunt wrote that,” he told her.  And the girl sneered, “Unlikely.”  I sent her an autographed copy, so she’d realize Bryce was cool.

            The other fame story happened when I called the credit union one time, needing to make a transfer from my checking to my savings (this was before the internet).  The phone teller said, “Wait a minute.  Are you THE Kristen Randle?”  And for the next five months, every time I called, she recognized my voice and pulled up my account without my needing to say a word.

            And that, my friends, is the meaning of fame.  My neighbor and good friend across the street, however, admitted he hadn’t suspected there was anything special about me until a couple of months ago when somebody told him about the books.  It was a casual, unimpressed admission.  He did not ask for an autograph.  He didn’t even dig out his camera.  And that, my friends, is the meaning of reality.

            But today I had some fun.  Our poor ancient Aussie dog has had some serious problems, so we took him to the vet today.  It had been a long time since we’d been to the vet, and they’d pretty much forgotten us there.  While we waited for some lab work to be done, the tech – sitting on the floor with my dog – shyly touched my shoe and asked, “Did you ever write a book?”  And then lit up like sun on water when she found out that the book she had in mind and little old me were connected.  She could have smacked me on the head for letting my dog’s eye get so infected (it really wasn’t our fault, though), but instead, she liked me because she liked my book.

            There was even another tech who came in simply to get a word with me.  Like it was a special occasion.  It was a darned good thing I had behaved well before that point.  I’m just lucky people read.  Now, every time I go there, I’ve gotta be a good person.  I have to pay my bills on time and be charming and amiable and treat everybody with respect. And I will try.  Really I will.  It would be horrible to betray them in any way.

            So let that be a lesson to you: even a teeny, tiny little bit of temporary fame carries a big, fat price tag.

            KR has just left the building.