Xenith Forums: entry twelve: a dialogue with the hoff - Xenith Forums

I am sitting on the most private beach in the entire world. I mean it. The small and seemingly insignificant island doesn't technically exist to the public at large. It is erased from registries and online satellite images. I am sitting on this most private of beaches drinking margaritas and bathing in the sun. Day in, day out, this is my life. And it is splendid. The water is cool and refreshing if I wish to swim. The sand is soft around me. Nearby there's a bar that only serves the world's best alcoholic brands, mixed by an award-winning bartender who doesn't work for tips. Waiters walk up and down the beach delivering drinks to the many wealthy and famous inhabitants of the island. The waiters all are Caribbean-born workers, they do not recognize the faces. They've never heard of Marilyn Monroe or River Phoenix or Aaliyah. Not that anyone uses their real names any more. At least not the people who've made the big plunge from stardom to "death" to obscurity.

On the island, I call myself Sebastian Graves. Graves, primarily. No one calls me Sebastian. Everyone always smiles when I introduce myself like that for the first time. They smirk and nod and shake my hand. Their body language tells me they'll play along. Everyone plays on the island.

There are guests on the island, people from the quote-unquote real living world who venture to the private paradise, if only for a glimpse of what they someday could look forward to. The island is limited in space. Only the very rich or very influential get a spot here. For guests, there is a small, expensive resort which requires some sort of agent for them to even book a room for you.

One such guest currently sits at the palm-shaded bar nearest to my chair. His name is David Hasselhoff, the world-class impersonator, mind you, not the actor/singer-songwriter. I say world-class and I mean it, truly. David Hasselhoff is well known as being true to his namesake, in looks, in build. An exact image of the man as you ever saw him. Hasselhoff is a semi-regular here on the Isle of St. Anthony, and my good friend. When The Hoff sees me, he jumps from his stool and orders a bucket of beers. When he jogs down the beach you immediately think of Baywatch. He takes a vacant beach recliner, lifts it above his head and jogs over.

"Speak of the Devil himself..." he smiles that perfect Hoff smile.

"Hello, David."

"Graves, you dried up son of a bitch, how you been?"

"Dead for thirty years. Never better."

Hasselhoff laughs. The bucket of beers arrives and he opens two for me. I never finish the margarita.




"You know I've never been to Germany?" The Hoff says after the ritual small talk fades.

"How could you never go to Germany? Isn't that primo territory for The Hoff? I thought they love him over there..."

"Sure, they love The Hoff. Accept nothing less than the real thing. Those Germans have some sorta seventh sense, it's like they know when it's the actual The Hoff. They can smell when it's really him."

"Get out of here."

"I'm serious! That's why I've never gone to the homeland..." The Hoff waves his arm dramatically. "I don't smell German enough."

"But you look just like him!"

"I know."

"Better than him, I would say."

"You just did."

"In fact, I recall the time when I mistook the real David Hasselhoff for you!"

"Now you get out of here..."

"It is true," I assure him. "He comes here from time to time."

"What did you say to him?"

"I said 'Hello, David. You look like shit.'"

"You didn't, you old bastard!"

"I thought it was you! You looked like shit."

"And what happened?"

"He just stood there for a moment. I instantly realized it wasn't you. I apologized, I said 'I have this friend..."

"You used 'friend'?" The Hoff says, perking up.

"I believe I did. I believe I said 'I have this friend who is a Hasselhoff impersonator.' I might have even said the Hasselhoff impersonator."

"And what did he say?"

"He laughed. He knew exactly who I meant. He told me he gets it all the time!"

The Hoff roars with laughter. A real roar, as much as a human could. Nearby beachgoers are startled at first but once their eyes find The Hoff they feel comforted. "And you never met him before?"

"Never. I know him now, of course. We laugh about it every time. I call him Hoff Two."

"Very nice. I've met him many times as well, amigo. He loves me. He even told me that I look more like The Hoff than he does!"

"Get out of here!"

"Several times, Graves." The Hoff takes a good swig of beer. "On several occasions."

"Well, I'll be...that's gotta be great for business, to have his verbal approval."

"It's fantastic! In fact, The Man Himself is now my primary source of referrals. "

"You don't say."

"He's a busy man, Graves. Busy man. There's lots of demand for The Hoffster. He's constantly being flown around the world to do a charity events or to shoot car commercials. German, obviously. His schedule is ludicrous. These days, if he's already booked, he'll send them my way."

"I suppose that does peg you as the number two man."

"Number one, compadre! I honestly contend that I am the number one David Hasselhoff in the world. Not impersonator, either, I'm including The Man Himself."

"Well, only because you look more like him that he does..."

"It's not just that. I'm a whole package plus the extras. I'm The Hoff that includes thirty-three percent more Hoff for free! Do you know I've actually stolen clients from him?"

"Have you really?"

"I have! I'll sub in for an event and the next year, bam! They're calling me directly! They know that people want The Hoff that looks like The Hoff. They don't care about the real Hoff. They want The Hoff that can Riverdance." The Hoff smiles wolfishly. He stands and puts his hand on his hips and begins to kick and dance. Sand flies in all directions. Beachgoers nearby begin to cheer and holler. Men are whistling, well known men, whistling. I can only assume they think it's really David Hasselhoff. Some of them probably know it's not. It doesn't matter. Everybody loves The Hoff.

"How does the real Hoff feel about you stealing his thunder?" I ask when he sits back down. Nearby someone chants his name.

"Are you kidding? The man's genuinely grateful. You can't even imagine how much more free time The Hoff has since I came around, let me tell you. I go out and do the charity events. He stays home with his kids and knows he's still out there making a difference."

"Sounds like a win-win situation."

The Hoff winks and points at me. Further down the shore, the other beachgoers remain with heads turned, staring longingly at the sculptured man beside me, imagining what such a beautiful person would want with a dried up old man. When he turns to order more beers, they smile and wave in quick excited motions. When he waves back, they cover their mouths and giggle. He stands and flexes and the beach goes wild with cheers. He soaks it all in.


Everybody loves the Hoff.