On the Thursday before the wedding, after a big gathering at the Orlando house, Andrew, Molly, Ian, Katherine, Barbra, Chris, and I went to Lynn’s for a beer. It’s a great little place, but it doesn’t see a lot of new faces; every head turned when our group walked in, not losing much interest even when we were settled at a table. We ordered drinks and settled in to enjoy the night’s entertainment—a one-man band.
Ah, Connellsville. You never know what to expect when you visit a place like Lynn’s. In this case, it was a true spectacle: a man singing, playing guitar, and playing drums simultaneously, using his right hand to both strum the guitar and hold his drumstick. Ian began craning his neck, explaining later he was trying to identify the source of a cowbell. A wild-haired woman materialized at his ear. “You lookin’ for the cowbell?” she asked in a low voice. “Look at his foot.” Indeed, there it was.
Our bill was delivered; it was $14, for 7 beers. Our amazement at the low cost drew yet more attention to our table. Ian handed the waitress a tip; she shook her head, unwilling to take it. “Where are we—Europe?” Ian said.
Leaving Lynn’s later, we were halfway out the door when Andrew heard someone at the bar say, “Margo and Molly” in a quiet, sinister voice (perhaps I made the sinister part up). We didn’t look back to see who it was; but it made a fitting end to our night at Lynn’s.