It was close to eleven on a Wednesday evening last fall when my life changed—for better or worse, I'm not sure. But definitely for the weirder. I was nursing a glass of tap water and watching a poorly dubbed martial arts movie that my intern, Rocko, had hunted down for me on the Bowery. Snake Gang Vs. Shaolin Idiot was a confusing jumble of constant combat, with little of interest save that it was the debut screen appearance of an actress I was preparing to interview the following week.

I fast-forwarded to the point at which Vicky Ha—then a six-year-old billed as Fung Wazhou—entered the narrative, walking on her hands across a tightrope. Then the phone rang. I thought it might be my wife, who was supervising the late shift at the printing press.

So I answered the way I sometimes do: “Yellow?”

There was a pause and a soft click, as when telemarketers call.

"Is this Ed Park?"

"This is Ed Park."

"Ed?"

"Yes."

"I can't believe it."

"Well, you had better. Who is this?"

"I'm so sorry. How rude of me. This is Lex from Caliber magazine. We met at the party for Wright Puddleton a couple years ago. You were friends with my wife in grad school." This was a surplus of information, yet still not enough. Neither Lex nor Caliber nor Wright Puddleton rang a bell, and I had never been to graduate school.

"I think you must have the wrong number," I said, preparing to sign off. The freelancer’s instinct, however, made me linger. I could always use another gig, and if Caliber paid well, I could be convinced to take a shot. I was just hoping it wasn’t a porn magazine.

"Ed Park the film reviewer!"

"Yes, that's me! But I don't know any Wright Puddleton, I'm afraid."

"But you must remember."

I didn't. How to say this gently? "If I'd met you, I'm sure I would remember. Tell me again where you think you met me."

"Ed, listen. My name is Lex—we only met briefly, at the thing for Wright. I was the guy with the glasses and the dark hair. I wasn't with Cathy, but she'd told me about you, in fact talks about you rather a lot—she jokes that she’s obsessed with you—and so when we were introduced . . . you mean you really don't remember any of this?"

"Nothing's ringing any bells." I was always on the lookout for people who were obsessed with me. It was sometimes nice to think that my presence was actually noted by another human being. However, actual obsession might not be entirely a good thing. It could take a dangerous form, such as people making voodoo dolls of you and sticking pins in the sensitive bits. Or calling late on weeknights, for that matter. "When was this party?"