It’s been a rocky few months for me. About six weeks ago, my office caught fire, and we’ve been working from home ever since. Not walking 30-35 minutes to the Metro, then to the office, has been taking its toll on me, and I’ll go days without leaving my building. Last month, while I waited for maintenance to fix my faucet, and I didn’t leave my 434-square-foot apartment for four days. All this has left me hyperfocused on Oscar’s opinion of me, and it became clear he doesn’t like me. Shortly afterward, I looked in the mirror, and I realized I’m really, really fat. The Thursday before last, I woke up so depressed I called in sick.

I hauled myself out of bed and did things I ordinarily don’t do, like eat lunch at a restaurant. Observing Oscar for a few days without anthropomorphizing him, I realized his personality is just aloof. Living with a lap cat for twenty years spoiled me. He shows affection with proximity, and I’m going to have get used to that.

I’ve been a lot better since then, counting the days to the Jomeh Bazar, which I last went to in May. The Bazar is located in a plaza surrounded by art studios, some of which were open. Nearly all the vendors are Middle Eastern, which makes sense because it was founded by an Iranian protest artist.

My first stop was Turkish coffee. If you’ve never had a Turkish coffee, it is slow-brewed and served in a cup the size of a double-shot glass. After drinking one, you need to throw back a Red Bull to take the edge off. The Discworld analog, Klatchian coffee, makes you knurd, which is so sober, you need to drink in order to avoid collapsing under the weight of brutal clarity. Terry Pratchett wasn’t exaggerating.

The vendor is the Ballstonian, and man who serves me is Isa. Before I can even order, he exclaims, “You know who you look like? Phillip Seymour Hoffmann!” He turns to his daughter, who looks college age, and asks her, “Don’t you think he looks like Phillip Seymour Hoffmann?”

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know who that is.” Her body says she endures him, but also adores him.

“You don’t know who that is?”

After discussing Hoffmann’s oeuvre, he sells me some baklava and sends me to a bench. I enjoy one of my favorite desserts, which is exceptional, and I enjoy the packet of moist towelettes his daughter had handed me.

While I’m covered in honey, wishing I had taken two towelettes, Mina, the adorable protest artist I have a massive crush on, wanders by on the way to her studio, and she recognizes me! I want to impress her, but I have no idea what to say. My heartbeat sounds like a monkey on Turkish coffee freestyling with a bongo, and there’s no way she doesn’t hear it.

Luckily, Isa swoops in, hands me my cup of liquid electricity, and says to her, “You know who he looks like? Phillip Seymour Hoffmann!”

Her eyes go wide. “He does!”

They take turns describing all of my Hoffmanesque qualities while I take a jolt from my coffee and fight back a blush. I tell them I used to get Kiefer Sutherland when I was younger. Isa laughs and says, “With two margaritas in a dark room, you know who he is? Kenneth Branagh!”

Mina says, “I’m jumbling all these faces into my artist’s mind!”

The spotlight goes away shortly after, and I pull out my sketchbook. According to Isa, Labor Day weekend is always slow, but there are still great people to see. I do rough, life-drawing sketches to solidify their appearances in my memory and get up to explore.

My next stop is Bicycle Trash, which is hosting a “Sewing Machine Petting Zoo,” where they display seven vintage sewing machines from the forties and fifties, which still work and are used in their classes. My next stop is T. Mofid Art, where I buy some unusually sized prints as presents. Following this, I stop at a vendor whose name I’ve forgotten, which reclaims thrift store clothes and dyes them with real plants. My new T-shirt, which I will fit into when I lose some weight, is indigo.

After enjoying a Persian cookie recommended by Mina, I draw some more and sit down for a tarot reading. I don’t believe in anything supernatural, but I have a rule: I will pay for a tarot reading whenever I see one. At the Renaissance Faire in Colorado, I went to two readers. One was terrible, but the other was uncanny. Uncanny enough that I’d believe she was real if I didn’t know better.

This guy is not great. Every interpretation of every card is way off. (“Have younger women been coming to you to steal some kind of information, something you’ve been guarding carefully?” “No.” “Do you have any information you’re keeping secret?” “No.” “You may not know you have this information. Watch for younger women.”) Unlike the bad reading in Colorado, he is fun to talk to, and I kind of admire the way he twists himself into pretzels trying to fit his square peg into my round hole. (“Your office caught fire? I told you! It’s the Tower card!”) He also tells me I should put a little more effort into my appearance.

The last vendor I see is Anahita Herbal Medleys, which sells medicinal syrups. I pick one that helps with immunity and focus, as well as one that inspires creativity and vivid dreams.

On my way home, I stop back at the Ballstonian because I want to try their cardamom iced tea. Isa tells me all about his coffee truck and how he set up tables on the sidewalk every day at 4000 Wilson Boulevard in Arlington. He unlocks his phone to show me a picture of his vintage Turkish truck, and the first image that comes up is my late doppelganger, Phillip. Isa thinks he would have made a great Joker. “Heath Ledger was really good. He’s dead too, but Phillip Seymour Hoffman would have been amazing.”

I make my exit, chased away by mosquitos, and return to Oscar. He yells at me for attention, but walks away when I try to pet him. After I go to sleep, he curls up next to my head. When I wake up at my usual time, he has long ago abandoned the bed because he doesn’t want me getting the wrong idea. He’s not Newcastle, but we’ve almost got each other figured out.