The gorgeous bartender’s surprise was a bit understandable, since it was safe to say this ski resort didn’t necessarily cater to the ‘dying northern Maine mill town’ demographic.
“Oh, ayuh.” I nod in the affirmative.
“Whereabouts?” she asks, as I put my ID back in my wallet. The little plastic rectangle still has a tangible chill.
Seems like a silly question, but it’s not unreasonable for her to assume that the address on my driver’s license isn’t current.
“Castle Rock.” I say with a straight face.
She pauses for a moment. Clearly this girl has read her some Steven King.
“C’mon…..really- where are you from?”
She didn’t say anything right away, but her eyes lit up.
“Jessica Oba-san?” she finally asks me excitedly.
“I’m sorry- what?”
“Oh…I’m sorry….” she gushed enthusiastically. “It’s just that we used to get Murder She Wrote on TV when I was growing up. Except in Japanese, it was called The Case Files of Jessica Oba-san. I used to love watching that show.”