Only Christie Brinkley Would Know for Sure

I’m a reluctant traveler. Not because I’m afraid of flying or weary of being prodded and wanded by Transportation Security Administration screeners.

I don’t like to leave L.A. because I’m a dead ringer for Billy Joel.

Traveling back east — especially to New York — is the worst. I can’t make it through the terminal at J.F.K. or LaGuardia without an incident. Usually, people just stare at me. But sometimes they go to extremes, coming within inches of my face.

“I’m not him,” I’ll say.

And then they usually leave me alone, because even though I’m Billy Joel’s doppelgänger, I don’t sound anything like him.

I’ve tried disguises, like wearing a baseball cap or sunglasses. That only worsens the problem, because people expect a famous singer to be traveling incognito.

Getting through the airport isn’t the most difficult part. It’s the pressure of being stuck on a plane with other passengers who think I’m You-Know-Who.

Flight attendants look puzzled when I walk back to the economy-class cabin, but there’s no time to explain that I’m not the Piano Man, I make independent films. Seatmates will spontaneously begin talking about music, or more often, their favorite Billy Joel album.

“I’m not him,” I’ll say. And it’s enough to convince a seatmate, but not the rest of the passengers who are out of earshot.

I’ve only been asked to sing once. I was waiting to meet some friends at a restaurant called Luna in Little Italy in New York. A couple walked in and did a double take when they saw me. But they didn’t stay star-struck for very long.

“Will you play something for us?” one of them asked.

By now, I was tired of being mistaken for someone else. “For a hundred grand, I will,” I said.

Silence.

“OK,” I said. “Fifty grand?”

More silence.

“All right, show me the piano and I’ll sing for free.”

But by then, they already knew I was someone else. The jig was up.

If I shaved my goatee, I might be able to travel anonymously.

But while I was waiting for a flight from Los Angeles to Pittsburgh recently, I met someone who helped put my similarities with the musician into perspective. The woman told me something I’d heard hundreds of times before: “You look just like Billy Joel.”

And I repeated the answer I’ve given a hundred times: “I know. I get that a lot.”

“You don’t understand,” she continued. “I was at Billy’s house just last week. You really do look like him. In person.”

It turns out she was related to Billy Joel.

“Well, next time you see him,” I said. “Please tell him to stop impersonating me.”