For Nancy Tandberg
An attractive Boomer in a maxi-skirt saw Robert as we were walking down 53rd Street and did a double-take with the obligatory dropping jaw.
“David Crosby!” she yelled.
She didn’t notice me wagging my head in a non-verbal “NO” as she got as close to my friend as a person can get without hugging.
“It’s David Crosby!” She yelled loud enough for two of the ten New Yorkers passing us on the sidewalk to actually turn and look.
“I’m not David Crosby,” he said for maybe the 1,223rd time in his life. But my friend looked like Crosby with long thick silver hair, dark eyebrows, a big nose and a bushy, droopy silver, mustache.
“I’m not David Crosby,” he said once again. “I’m Robert Sheldon and if you’ll excuse me I’m on my way to a meeting.” And then he winked at her. She stood there as he passed by, finally speechless and looking shell-shocked.
The meeting was at the summer American Booksellers Association convention at Javits Center, a cab ride away.
That Robert looked like David Crosby was partly coincidence and partly a look he had cultivated and refined over the years. It’s a true fact that his look attracted people, especially women.