The line moves slowly, so I’m still standing there when he returns with two Styrofoam cups. He hands me one. “Black okay?” “Great, thanks.” He’s staring at me again. “What?” I mutter. “Nothing,” he says, but he keeps staring. The line edges closer. Now I can hear what Grebbs is saying to the woman in front of him. She’s in her fifties, which seems like the appropriate age to be waiting for an autograph from this man.
