“Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay

To mould me Man…?” -John Milton

My roommate and I were walking up Third Avenue, groceries in hand and sharing a laugh about something or other. It was a weekend, so I was dressed comfortably if slovenly — a hoodie over greasy hair, my shoulders hunched, and a five o’clock shadow rearing its head. I wasn’t focused on my appearance, though.

I would soon find out, however, that others were.

Around 12th Street, I heard a voice call out: “Hey!”

I jerked my head around, expecting to be greeted by a friend or classmate. Instead, I saw the perplexed and somewhat angry face of a young man in a yarmulke, flanked by a young lady half his size. I didn’t know this man.

“Can I help you?” I offered, thinking perhaps he wanted directions.

“Are you Martin Shkreli?”

I stared back at him, blinking in confusion. Had this man really asked me if I was Martin Shkreli, former CEO of the company that jacked up the price of Daraprim, becoming the most hated man in pre-Trump America in the process? It was broad daylight — and he was staring right into my face, only feet away.

“What?” is all I could manage, my confusion and resemblance to the pharma bro angering the man further.

“I said, are you Martin Shkreli?” he shot back. His expression was quickly retreating from awe and making its way to betrayal and vengeance. In my flabbergast, I couldn’t accomplish the simple task of denying the accusation — no! I’m not the smarmy asshole who got banned from Twitter just by being smarmy and asshole-ish! — so I decided instead to stammer my way through something resembling an apology and an excuse while walking away.

This would not be the last time I would deny being the owner of Wu-Tang Clan’s Once Upon a Time in Shaolin. It would appear that, in my dark hair and eyes, stubbly chin-neck combo, greasy parted hair, and general posture, I strongly resemble Martin Shkreli to some people.

Why is my reflection someone I don’t know?

It never came up before I moved to New York; in my hometown, I went about my business without harassment.

But in Manhattan — I get stopped on the street, confronted in restaurants, and occasionally insulted from afar. Last year at a Halloween party, I got plenty of compliments on my Martin Shkreli costume, which is to say I was wearing a sweater and hadn’t showered.

For what it’s worth, I try my best not to look like Shkreli. I’ve started cutting my hair shorter, standing up straighter, and dressing less like someone who offered to bail out Bobby Shmurda. There are some things I can’t change, like our shared lack of a proper transition from chin to neck, but I’m taking steps nonetheless.

If you see me in the street, know that I sympathize. He’s a terrible douche, and I would give him a piece of my mind, too. But before you stop me, just remember that he’s in jail and, you know, not a junior in college.