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Yesterday evening, I saw Griffin Dunne strolling north on Fifth Avenue at 8th Street.
He looked quite scruffy and was accompanied by a woman who was enthustiastically applauding something he'd just said.
Perhaps she's his employee, paid to accompany him everywhere he goes and clap every time he speaks.
I stopped by the ATM during my lunch hour to get some cash, and my request for one hundred of my hard-earned dollars yielded not five but six twenties.
I was momentarily tempted to consider the extra Jackson a karmic reward and slip away with it, but who was I kidding?
So I stepped in to the bank and told the customer service rep I had received an extra double-sawbuck. Turns out there was a very annoyed cop there filling out a form to claim the twenty he'd been shorted just moments before by the same machine I'd used.
This gentle (or so I hoped) giant seemed very grateful indeed that I'd come clean and returned the dough. "What's your name?" he asked, as my tiny little girly hand was swallowed up by his huge paw in a real he-man's handshake.
"Brett," I answered, meekly.
"Well, Brett, thanks a lot. This bank just saved some major grief from me because of your honesty."
I'm kicking myself now for not requesting a "get out of jail free" card from the man-mountain. Not that I run afoul of the law on a regular basis, but one never knows when a misstep might occur, and it couldn't hurt to have a name to drop in a pinch.
But, alas, I'll have to be satisfied with the giant man's gratitude.