Reflector in Brooklyn

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The first time it happens we’re out in the neighborhood at the dive bar in front of the police station and behind the fire station. We get inside and a guy turns to me and says: “Oh Win!” I say, “I didn’t win anything.” The guy looks confused, says “My mistake,” and walks away.

Sometime later we’re having splashes before dinner at one of the destination bars, and we meet a couple here on vacation from Tennessee. The guy says: “Excuse me, are you Win Butler?” I think, why not, so this time I say, “Yes, nice to meet you.” I’d heard stories of look-alikes getting freebies so I go on about winning a Grammy in 2011 with “my” band Arcade Fire.

They ask me if it was difficult to play the Grammys. “Nah,” I say, “One step at a time. One quarter, one thank you at a time. Like Rod Stewart said, it’s just a twinkle in my eye. Spin called me the Van Morrison of the aughts.” Just the other day we’re having drinks at the place with the best specials right by the railroad on the third floor— next to a group of Beasts of Burden (i.e., one too many boxes of Twinkies) out for a birthday bash. The birthday girl, accompanied by her barnacle attachment of friends, points right at me.

I say to Twinkle: “I bet she thinks I’m Win Butler.”

Sure enough, I walk over, and they make me take pictures immediately. All eight of them give me hugs: “We love you Win!” “Thank you for being a good sport.” Everything but the Irish Spring. “Happy Birthday,” I say, “May it be filled with cold drinks and hot times.” They may post the photos on Facebook. I follow Win’s updates, and I am still waiting to be tagged.

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