I know lots of em at the neighborhood joint. Jim, the deep thinking guy from up the street, sultry Sarah behind the counter, the guitar playing carpenter, the freshly graduated former school gal and her friend, couple other folks. I say I know them. I don't know them, but I know them ... here at the neighborhood joint.
Eight o'clock in the evening-my workday is done and done well, and on this jewel of a warm humid, comfortable, 70 degree second night of the summer of 2010, at the neighborhood joint, I order my favorite; macaroni and cheese with ham, extra applesauce, hibiscus tea, and, a fudgy brownie. Could an evening be more delightful?
Youngish girl I don't know, slim, tight, dark, pretty-out of my league, comes in the joint, looks and walks directly at me and sits in the seat to my right. I exaggerate making counter space for her, acting like I'd be as accommodating if she were a he, or a not so good looking she. She orders a beer. She's waiting for someone to join her, I think. She must be, pretty gal like her.
Guy who works at a ski shop in town I bought socks at yesterday, tells me a coworker recognized me, says she was excited cause she thinks I'm a celebrity, says she was scared to say anything. I tell him I remember, she was a petite gal, pregnant. I tell him to tell her hey, to tell her I'm flattered.
The ski shop guy and my exchange put the pretty girl wise, and half a minute later the pretty girl does the improbable. She addresses me.
"Are you the guy in the television commercials?"
I raise my attention from my macaroni and cheese and offer her a, if it's possible to be both these things at the same time; perked up, subdued: "Yeah, I am."