Personal Yummy #64
He has that kind of mysterious sexiness that you can’t quite describe, the stuff of Nicolas Cage. And he looks particularly attractive when he smiles, which accentuates his always-there mustache. Plus, he is friendly and easygoing, coming into The Grill at least twice a week, around three or four o’clock or so (when the place is rather empty), to hang out with Curt for a while and to drink a few cups of coffee before he has to leave to go to work.
As soon as he sits down on the bar stool, Curt gently places a clean, empty, white stoneware mug in front of him, then a napkin, a spoon, a little oblong plastic container full of sugar and sweetener, and a white stoneware dish filled with little, individual containers of half and half. “Just a minute for the coffee, buddy.” As usual, each and every time Craig comes in, Curt dumps out whatever coffee is sitting on the burner, and he brews a fresh, steaming pot. And each and every time Craig gets up to leave—“Well, you know what time it is, Curt”—whether he has been sitting there for half an hour or two, has drunk one cup of coffee or four, he reaches into his pocket, takes out his wallet, and places a five-dollar tip on the bar. It’s unmistakable how much they care for each other, in their masculine, unassuming way.
Craig is a bartender just like Curt, and he mainly works the evening shifts at the Decade. From what they’re telling me, though, he hasn’t always been a bartender. Out of all The Grill’s employees, and out of all its regulars, he seems to have had the most unordinary career.
“You’re kidding!” I respond to Curt and Craig, quickly turning around to look at them when I hear them talking about it (my back was toward them because I was punching an order into the computer next to the bar). “You mean that you used to be on those competitions on TV that my dad and I watched together when I was a kid?”
“Yeah, Jenna, you got it,” Craig replies.
But I just stand there, looking blankly at him. (I’ve learned, from past experience, to question my gullible nature.)
“Really, Jenna, we’re not kidding,” Curt says, laughing. “We’re not lying. Craig here, my buddy here—he used to be one.”
“No way,” I say. “No way.” I’m sure these two are having some fun with me, as they’ve done many times before.
“Yes, way,” Curt says, laughing even harder. “He used to be a professional bowler.”
A professional bowler? No—well, maybe. But then, no. I just don’t believe them. As Jewel inquires “Who will save your soul?” through the overhead speakers, I walk away incredulous, shaking my head, sure they are pulling my leg.
Who will save your soul indeed.
******
The above excerpt is from my coming-of-age novel—The Grill on Murray Avenue: A Story of Innocence—about the inhabitants of an unassuming bar-and-grill in Squirrel Hill, a vibrant neighborhood in the east end of Pittsburgh. The story is told by Jenna, a young waitress who dreams of becoming a professional dancer.
personalyummy.com 