I found myself, along with my cousin and her husband, on a road in downtown Atlanta where a Ted’s Montana Grill sign hangs. Seemed like a grand place to dine, so in we went, squeezing into our lovely booth overlooking a buffalo head (or maybe I should say bison head? I’m never quite sure).
“There’s Ted now!” says Archie (my cousin’s husband). Ha ha ha! That Archie’s such a card. When around the corner of the booth strides Ted Turner (who, I might add, is very tall, up close and personal like that).
“Hi, Ted!” we call out, shaking hands and such. “Ted,” says Janie (the cuz), “I just happen to have my camera!” Out of the seat she scoots to get a picture with the very tall media mogul and ex-Braves owner. (Doesn’t Janie look nice? Doesn’t Ted look nice? Don’t the two look nice together? Time to move on.)
Ted was gracious and patient with the scene we were making. “That’s the great thing about celebrities,” said my cuz, “you can call them by their first name, just like you’ve known them all your life!” And right there, sitting in Ted’s Montana Grill, my delicious bison meatloaf blue plate special steaming on the table, I knew I’d found the hallmark of Fame. When the day comes that I’m walking down the street (or strolling around a restaurant) and someone I don’t know from Adam’s housecat yells out, “Hey Cathy!” just like we’re bosom buddies, then I’ll be famous.
I know if I saw Dave Barry on the street, I’d holler, “Dave! Hey, Dave! How’s it going, man?” He might keep on walking. He might even call the police on the crazy lady screaming his name. But at least he’d know he was famous.