We met one perfect almost-spring evening at Rosebud, a dance hall in the Strip District. He asked me to salsa. “You must have been Latin in a previous life!” he said after about two minutes, his genuine face beaming. “Why haven’t I seen you here before?” And he led me into an underarm turn.
“Believe me,” I replied, as I spun around twice, “I would’ve been here if I could’ve, but I just turned twenty-one a few days ago!”
Ah, that evening of fate. It was such an effortless beginning, and it’s been so effortless ever since.
His black hair is so greasy. Greasy and stringy. So much so, that as he sits contentedly at the bar for two hours and sips from his pint glass full of ice, Pepsi, and a straw—as he does almost every day—it practically clings to his fingers when he brushes it to the side, out of his eyes.
He’s really not unattractive, however. About five-six, not dangerously overweight but a bit chubby and out of shape, he dresses decent enough and wears serious, smart glasses. And although he’s quite reserved, eccentric, and unusual, I’ve never seen him be mean to anyone, and never can imagine him being so.
Plus, today he has a thick, cream-colored hardcover along with him, keeping company with his Pepsi…
“My feet take me back to the little brick place I’d had no intention of giving a chance.”
If you haven’t yet enjoyed this coming-of-age story set in Pittsburgh (or even if you have), click here to obtain a copy of the book, which has been updated with an entirely new cover.
In walks a thin, middle-aged, gray-haired man with glasses and the current issue of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. He smiles at us pleasantly, sits down in the back booth, props a menu up in his hands, and starts studying it.
In no time at all, here comes Cathy—suddenly. She hurriedly approaches the man, grabs his folded paper, reaches past him and across the table (in a shockingly easy manner, in fact, even though she is almost nine months pregnant), and, with as much force as I’ve seen from just about anyone, obliterates a fly on the wall, and with much success.
You would think that the squished fly would adhere to the wall, but it doesn’t. Rather, it falls to the table, right beside the man’s hands.
I’ve never seen such a look of repulsion and disgust on someone’s face, but there it is.
“Are you crazy?!” he yells, utterly taken aback. “How could you do something like that?”
He stares at her for a moment more, but then he yanks his Post-Gazette from her hand, finds his way out of the booth, stands up, and storms out the door.
Today is Cathy’s last day at The Grill—at least for now.
She shrugs her shoulders.
******
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.
We decide to do the “photo shoot” one Saturday afternoon that I have off, around four o’clock.
We pick this time because it is usually a slower time of the day: The main dinner crowd doesn’t start arriving until around five or five thirty. Obviously, we don’t want to disturb anyone’s drink or meal; plus, we want to avoid as much embarrassment and staring as possible.
The overwhelming smell of fries, burgers, pasta, wings, steak, and ribs taunts me, and my stomach growls—earnestly—hoping tonight will be like some other nights, when Tommy or Mary Ellen pushes a dish toward me, saying, “You want this Reuben? The customer decided he didn’t want it after I had already started making it” or “I misread the slip and put the wrong kind of sauce on this pasta. You want to take care of it for me?”
“Damn it!” Diana yells—rather explosively, in fact—a scowl appearing upon her face, a tempting iced café mocha resting in her hand. “I guess this will just have to wait.”
“Hey, Shane,” Nick says, as he leans over the end of the bar and comfortably rests his forearms on top of it. “Are you the early-person-out tonight?”
Shane, busy doing his side work, stops with his hand buried inside a white plastic container of bright blue, yellow, and pink sugar and sweetener packets. He looks up expectantly. “Yeah, I sure am, Nick,” he replies.
“Well, why don’t you get going then? It’s nine—a little early—but there’s no use sticking around here any longer tonight.”
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