Rounding the corner, pushing himself to walk hard and fast, he almost ran into another person. The other guy seemed to be doing the same thing as him. As both jerked back in reaction, they looked at one another in the face.

Blue eyes rested a in tanned and lean, craggy face under short, sandy-blonde hair.

He almost gasped aloud. He almost said, “Steve McQueen.”

Quickly, the other man turned and strode away. As he gaped at the man’s receding back, he thought, that can’t be Steve McQueen. Steve McQueen died a long time ago, like decades ago, or something, from a heart attack. He remembered it because McQueen and his father had been born in the same age. McQueen’s death, when he was just fifty, scared his father.

He wished he could call his father and talk about it, but his father had died the year before. As he mused on that, wondering if it was McQueen’s doppelganger or maybe a son, he almost ran into another man.

“Excuse me,” the other man said with a smile.

He jerked back in shock. “Johnny Carson?”

The man put a finger to his lips with a furtive grin. “Shh. Mum’s the word.” Then he turned and hurried away into the brightening day.