I was, as ever, at my local on Monday morning. Dolores came early for her coffee date with Ann (not me) and ordered the same sandwich I was having. She’s hard of hearing and 73, she told me. Ann showed up, but I didn’t pay much heed until I heard Ann say, “I said, ‘I was in a coma. How could I call? He asks me why don’t I call. I just says to him, I was in a coma. How could I call? How can you call if you’re in a coma?’” That made me tune my ear to their frequency (which, believe me, was not hard: deaf women with thick Jersey accents broadcast well):
Do you know that woman, Shirley? She’s a diabetic.
Yeah, Shirley. Did you know she’s a diabetic? I didn’t know she was a diabetic.
Yeah. I know Shirley’s diabetic.
Anyway, Shirley came to BINGO on Tuesday and she had these (rustling in her purse for a cellophane wrapper). They’re Tast-E-Kakes.
Yeah, those are good. I got them at the Second Street Bakery
She says you can’t get them here.
I got them at Second Street Bakery
She got them at the Shoprite in Hoboken. You can’t get them here. They’re lite. For diabetics. I thought I’d try them.
There were many significant glances my way when a young woman, all tattooed and punked out came in, “Looks dirty, right?” I shrugged. (I don’t like tattoos, too, but my loyalty here is both indifferent and divided.) As the tattooed young woman was leaving, Dolores begins extolling the virtues of FOX news—they give you news on the hour! You get so much news—“But there was a kid on Reilly. Oooh. I wish you could see this. He had a mohair—a Mohawk—a Mohawk, it was fiery red…”