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It takes no more than ten minutes to navigate the winding roads into town. I’m loving the new truck I bought after unloading the G-Wagon and Maserati.
It feels right.
Unpretentious.
I don’t have to impress anyone here, although I didn’t have to impress anyone back in Pittsburgh either.
I drive past the courthouse and hang a left on Main Street, which is quite charming. Most of the buildings are red brick and two or three stories tall, stacked side by side. They house law firms, cafés, bars, a hardware store, and even an old cinema that shows only one movie.
I decide on Masha’s Bar and Grill for no other reason than the name Masha is cool.
Despite the large windows along the front, the interior is dark due to the wood paneling and dark-stained wood floors. A long bar runs along the back wall and tables are scattered about. It’s a bit early for the rush hour, so the tables are only half occupied. Two men sit at the bar with beers in front of them.
It never occurs to me to take a table. I’m in a bar, so that sort of demands sitting there. I take a position on the short end so my back isn’t facing the door. I’m only here to eat, so when the bartender asks for my poison, I order a Diet Coke.
I’m normally not a soda drinker, but I’m also picky about my water, and the kind they serve here comes out of the tap. A can of pop is the lesser of two evils today.
I’m provided with a menu that actually looks good, and after a quick perusal, I order a Reuben with chips.
Can’t say there have been a lot of good things about leaving hockey behind, but one is not having to watch my diet so meticulously. I still eat relatively healthy, but during the season in the thick of training, I count macros and deny myself a lot of food pleasures.
Having a Reuben in a bar seems like a guilty pleasure, and fuck if I’m not enjoying it.
The two men at the bar give me a glance—no double take of recognition—and go back to talking. The bartender is also serving as waiter for the half-empty restaurant, so he barely spares me a look.
For now, it seems I’m flying under the radar, and I like it.
My soda is served, and I watch the TV as I wait for my food. People come in and out. Another couple sits at the opposite end of the bar, barely noticing me.
I turn slightly on my stool, look out across the tables to see if the place is getting busier, and then I’m the one doing a double take.
Not ten feet behind me at a tiny corner table sits Tilden Marshall. She’s got what looks like a lemonade in front of her and a plate with only a few french fries alongside the crumbs of what I’m guessing was a sandwich. She’s oblivious to the world, body hunched over a sketchbook on the table as she draws something I can’t see, her arm protectively curled around her work.
Clearly, she’s not worried about my threats as she’s decided to have a leisurely lunch rather than clean my yard. To be fair,however, I did give her until the end of the day, and there are still plenty of hours left.
I turn back to face the bar, intent on ignoring her and hoping she doesn’t see me. Luckily, my food arrives, and I tuck in while watching a baseball game on the TV.
I’m so immersed in what’s an amazing fucking sandwich and the game that I don’t realize there are people next to me at the bar until I hear giggling.
Glancing over, I see three women on stools adjacent to me. They put their purses on the wooden top and one of them calls to the bartender, “Hey, Jimmy… three cosmopolitans, please.”
He holds up an index finger indicating he’ll be a minute and starts pulling pints of draft beer for another order.
I duck my head and continue to eat my sandwich, feeling pinned in by their proximity. They’re all dressed in low-cut blouses, tight jeans, and heels. Hair and makeup all done up as if they were getting ready to go out for a night on the town rather than lunch in a small-town bar in rural Pennsylvania.
“Ask him,” one girl says.
Another whispers, far too loudly, “No, you ask him.”
Fuck… I’ve been recognized.
I act as if I can’t hear them, hoping they’ll get the hint I don’t want to be bothered, but one of them is bold. She scoots her stool closer to the corner of the bar, which puts her closer to me. “My name’s Cici. Let me guess… you’re here for some trout fishing?” she asks.
I’m relieved she clearly doesn’t recognize me, but apparently, I’m getting soft because the Coen Highsmith of just a month ago would’ve told her to fuck off. Instead, I shake my head without even looking at her. “Just some peace and quiet.”
“Pity,” she says with a pout to her tone. “Maybe if—”
“Cici… look who’s here,” one of the women says, interrupting her friend.
