AS TEENAGERS growing up in Fairfield, Conn., we all had stories of Paul Newman sightings. One Saturday afternoon, while sitting in the parking lot of a local hot dog joint, my sister and I saw a police car pull over a VW Bug. Newman ate lunch regularly at the steak house down the street, and was known to drive a souped-up Bug with a Porsche engine. This particular VW driver got out of the car and approached the officer, who soon shook his hand and patted him on the back. It was Paul! I had to meet him. I dashed across the grass and stuck my head into the window of the Bug. "Are you Paul Newman?" I asked inanely. He gave me a sly smile, those famous blue eyes twinkling, and said, "Well, I was when I woke up this morning, but I don't know about now." He smiled again and pulled away, leaving me screaming in the middle of Black Rock Turnpike. What a guy.
LYNNE MALONEY
Scituate
© Copyright 2008 Globe Newspaper Company.
