Meet Me Under St. Louis
Only in St. Louis would I gather with friends who had been featured in the Post to play trivia on a Wednesday night in a bar where we win free pizza and beer. I guessed Bette Davis’ eyes were hers and answered correctly a clue about xenophobia. Only in St. Louis would my alderman call me in the middle of this celebration, introducing himself by his first name only. We talked about my ‘hood, parks, meetings and neighbors. Only in St. Louis would I run out of one bar and find myself getting in the car of a native who put on the gas before I could even say hello. It’s as if he was waiting for me to come out of that place, as if he saw me coming down the stairs. We drove a few blocks and stopped at another bar, my 3rd of the evening. Only in St. Louis would I run into a detective friend whose argyle sweater made me grin. And only in St. Louis would this kid I know from a bar answer a phone at the office of a man who wants to hire me as a temp secretary. Only here would I get free tickets to a Cardinals game, write about my best friends in magazines, coach tennis for a private school and cat sit for my editor. “This is your time,” a friend told me today, “you’re in the best spot you could ever be in.”
