My best story is someone else’s best story too. Actually, his might be better.

It was about ten years ago. My first hardcover book, The Dilbert Principle, had just hit number one on the New York Times best seller list. I was already getting a lot of media attention because of Dilbert. That was nothing compared to the attention I got when my book hit the top of the charts. I sometimes did five interviews a day.

Luckily, cartoonists are invisible in public. No matter how many times my face got published, or I did TV interviews, I was almost never recognized in public. I counted on that.

So there I was, flying from California to Florida, to give a paid speech. The client paid for a first class ticket. I was in an aisle seat, reading a magazine. The fellow on my left pulls out a book to read: The Dilbert Principle. The back cover features a photo of me holding a huge pencil. “Uh oh,” I think. If this guy makes the connection, it’s going to be a long flight.

The guy starts reading. He laughs. Phew. I’m glad he likes the book. He laughs some more. He’s really getting into it now. I look to my right. The fellow directly across the aisle pulls out a book to read: The Dilbert Principle. Now I have them on both sides, and the plane hasn’t crossed Arizona yet. Damn. There’s no way one of them won’t recognize me from the book jacket.

Now the guy on my left is convulsing. He’s wiping tears from his eyes. He’s having the time of his life. But he realizes his laughter is disturbing me. So he turns to me and says, “I’m sorry. It’s this book. Have you read it?”

I’m staring at my own book, sitting next to a fellow who might be my biggest fan ever, and I don’t want to spend the next five hours talking about “where I get my ideas.” So I smile and say, “Yes. I’ve read it a few times.” Well, it was true.

The man goes back to reading. Now he’s totally losing control. He’s embarrassed at his laughing and tries to make conversation so he doesn’t feel so foolish. He turns to me again and says, “My boss bought fifteen copies of this book: one for everyone in the department.” That was my tipping point.

As much as I wanted to fly to Florida in peace, I know a good story when I see one. And this guy was on the edge of a doozy. I couldn’t let it pass without violating some cosmic law of storytelling. I asked the man a question that puzzled him, “Would you mind giving your boss a note from me?”

It was an odd request from a stranger on a plane. But what could he say? “Um, okay,” he answered, evidently confused. I took out a piece of note paper and drew Dogbert. Beneath it I wrote “Thanks for buying my book for your department,” and I signed it. I handed the note to the fellow on my left.

He looked at the note.

He looked at me.

He looked at the note again.

He looked at me.

He turned over the book, remembering it had a photo on the back.

He looked at my photo.

He looked at me.

He looked at the note.

He looked at me.

Words can’t describe the look on his face as the coincidence sunk in. He asked me if it was true and I confessed that it was. Somehow the guy to my right overheard. We talked, naturally, and they were both nice guys. I didn’t get much reading done on that flight. That was okay. You only get one chance to have your best story ever. I think it was worth it.