I've bumped into a few celebrities in my life. Alec Baldwin, you know about. When I was a chauffeur in college, I drove Jerry Seinfeld around for a weekend. Perhaps the unlikliest was childhood hero Terry Bradshaw. I've met many of my childhood Steelers, so that part wasn't remarkable. It was where I ran into him: a grocery store in remote Poulsbo, WA. Imagine a Steelers fan running into a Steelers great here, and you can imagine my surprise.
"Here?!" I eloquently said.
Pittsburgh friend Risa has met 'em all, and she's smoother than me. She was walking down an alley on her way to the downscale cigar shop when she came upon Denzel Washington, leaning up against a fence and smoking during a break in filming.
"Say," she said. "Has anyone ever told you—"
"Yeah," he nodded.
"—that you can't smoke here?"
He laughed, and they chatted. Pointing at the cigar perpetually bobbing on her lower lip, he said he really respected a cigar-chomping woman. She invited him to the cigar shop, where, she promised, everyone would leave him alone. He joined her, and they smoked together, and people left him alone. He probably mistakenly attributes this to the coolness of the customers. But I know it's because they were so engrossed in telling the same goddamned alimony stories for the umpteenth time, they didn't notice specifically who they were boring.
I missed meeting Denzel, naturally, but I showed up two hours later. Risa was lingering in her seat, her eyes still awash with estrogen.
I grabbed my normal seat next to her.
"Don't sit there," she snapped. "Not today."