The ship docked in San Juan, Puerto Rico.

I’d navigated these arcane streets before, but my usual haunts?

Nah, not that day.

I bypassed Waffle-era Tea Room, my breakfast haven, because frankly, my stomach wasn’t craving waffles.

And Carthage Express, with its utterly charming model train delivering Mallorca?

A vision, truly, but my soul yearned for the primal satisfaction of a classic burger and a beer.

The problem, my fellow voyager, was that San Juan boasted more burger joints than a dragon has scales.

Which one, in this sprawling, tantalizing labyrinth of options, would claim my allegiance?

I drifted, a ship without a compass, until boredom, that most insistent of muses, nudged me into a random dive.

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Empty. Save for three souls.

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My internal cynic immediately whispered tales of terrible food and impending bankruptcy.

But then, a revelation!

The entire restaurant was quiet.

Ah, blessed, glorious quiet.

Look, I’m an omnivert—a creature of paradox—but my introverted side usually wins the staring contest against my extroverted side.

But let me tell you, on that gargantuan sardine can of a ship, where I ate, slept, and breathed alongside my delightful (yet ceaselessly present) coworkers, personal space was a myth.

I was constantly drowning in delightful, albeit exhausting, human interaction.

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So, that hushed bar was a sanctuary, a sacred space calling my name.

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As I entered, I paused, momentarily transfixed by a trio: a Black man, flanked by two white women.

And before your deviant mind spirals into adult film clichés, pump your breaks!

Their melanin, or lack thereof, matters to this story.

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Because the Black guy, specifically, pinged a forgotten corner of my brain.

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He looked familiar. Agonizingly familiar.

But from where? I couldn’t put a name to the face.

I offered a nod.

He’d returned it.

That was not enough time to jog my memory.

Our gazes locked, and the staring began.

I, desperately sifting through the archives of my memory, and he, silently daring me to articulate the obvious.

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But the name, the place, the connection—it remained stubbornly elusive.

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Now, in my line of work, I could meet over a thousand new faces a week. The logical leap was that this guy was a fellow Carnival crew member. A colleague I must’ve met in passing.

But no other Carnival ship was docked in the port.

Soooooo … Was he on vacation? That would have been a crazy coincidence.

Who was this enigma?

And we had crossed the Rubicon of prolonged eye contact.

That point of no return, where the awkward stare solidifies into an unbreakable monument of sweaty discomfort.

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But, for some bizarre reason, I didn’t stop staring at the guy.

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I should have.

And he should have torn his gaze off me!

Instead, we both became a living demonstration of the sunk cost fallacy.

My mind raced: how much more excruciating would it be to confess my blank slate and just ask him to remind me of his name and where I knew him from, like a normal person would do?

Meanwhile, his eyes, those knowing, slightly exasperated eyes, silently pleaded for me to just… move on.

But he didn’t.

And neither did I.

We just… stared, a ridiculous, unblinking duel that cranked my internal thermostat to “panic,” leaving me subtly, uncomfortably damp.

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One of us had to end this cringeworthy staring contest.

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Finally, I’d capitulated, breaking the silent duel.

I shuffled, a defeated warrior, to a table, burying my face in the menu like it held the secrets of the universe.

Then, a new player entered the arena: a stocky gentleman, emerging from the restaurant’s mysterious depths, a curious glint in his eye.

“Are you with the crew?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

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Well, I was a crew member on the ship, but his query felt… different.

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“Yeah,” I said, the word a question in itself. “I’m with the crew.”

“Okay,” he said, a note of finality in his tone. “Because we’re not serving from our normal menu. We have a special menu for production.”

Production?

My brain, ever the jester, offered a confused laugh.

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Hm. I worked in entertainment production on the ship, but “special treatment” or “discounts” in port for a specific department was unheard of.

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“Sounds good.” I took the menu, a scroll of unexpected wonders, and ordered my feast.

While awaiting my culinary destiny, I became one with my phone, a shield against the gaze of the familiar stranger.

And then, the revelation, served up with my burger.

The stocky gentleman, now a fanboy in disguise, took pictures, solicited an autograph from the very man whose identity had eluded me.

The pieces clicked, a symphony of recognition!

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Anthony Mackie.

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Former Falcon.

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Current Captain America himself.

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And the star of Twisted Metal! (my guilty pleasure)

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Right there, in that quiet, unassuming bar in San Juan.

This wonderfully awkward encounter, a gem of a memory, unfolded in 2015, during the filming of Our Brand Is Crisis, with George Clooney and Sandra Bullock.

Later, I learned the entire restaurant and the one across the street had been commandeered for the film’s cast and crew.

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I, in my infinite, bumbling glory, had stumbled into a movie set.

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And did I seize the moment for a selfie, an autograph?

Nah.

I felt like I’d fumbled the ball.

I just ate my burger, savored my beer.

But as I left, Anthony Mackie offered another nod with a sly grin. “That was awkward. But I’ll still let you hold the shield.”

And then, dear reader, I hoisted Captain America’s iconic shield, feeling the weight of heroism, and boomed, “Avengers Assemble!”

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The Avenger’s Theme swelled, an epic crescendo—

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Okay, okay, you got me. That last part was pure fantasy. 😂

My true ending was super mundane.

After I finished my food, I returned to the ship without speaking to Anthony Mackie. He gave no additional head nod. No sly grin. I never held the shield because in 2015, he hadn’t quite become Captain America yet (and why would he even travel with the shield at all times like I would anyway?).

More tragically, I have no autograph or photographic proof that I ever met Anthony Mackie.

I’ve just got this wild, random tale.

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You’ll simply have to believe me.

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Or not.

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But it’s ridiculous situations like this that make the Vaudeverse fandom unlike any other you’ve experienced before.

We thrive on the weird, the wondrous, and the wonderfully unexpected.

If you’re ready for more true and fictional stories that defy convention and spark genuine connection, then it’s time to step into The Vaudrium.

Join the community and let’s explore the truly peculiar together.

​​https://vaudeverse.com/the-vaudrium/​​

Michael Martin

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