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Authors: Tamar Myers
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it certainly doesn’t make me more imposing. “ What story? Are you from the Charlotte Observer ?”
Chapter 7
O h no, ma’am. I’m taking a creative writing class and my assignment was to listen to some dialogue in a public place and to use it in a story of my own. You and your sister were da bomb.”
“She’s not my sister; she’s my mother! And the bomb is in the turkey, for crying out loud.”
“It’s an honest mistake, young man,” Mama said, as she went from patting her pearls to patting her hair. Trust me; I was never going to hear the end of this.
I took a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet and held it out to the young man. He was about the age of my son, Charlie, which made him perhaps twenty.
“Here,” I said, “take this. It might help move dialogue along—like back to the table where you started.”
The kid remained seated. His eyes were uncomprehending; I may as well have been speaking Cantonese.
“Abby,” Mama whispered, “I don’t think that money talks as loud as it used to.”
I pulled out another twenty, followed by a ten. “Either you take a hike now, junior, or we do.”
He was a good Southern boy. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, before skedaddling.
“Who was that young stud muffin?”
I looked up from my café latte to see a strange woman with familiar eyes standing inside my comfort zone. Even worse, after brazenly bumping my shoulder with her hips, she slid into the booth next to me.
“ Excusez-moi ,” I said, “but have we met?”
“Abby, it’s me!”
“Wynnell? B-but you have two eyebrows!”
“I know,” Mama purred, “doesn’t she look fabulous? I was lying about the lip wax.”
“Is that what you said, Mozella? And you believed that, Abby? I don’t have a mustache, do I?”
“Of course not, dear.” The fact that, upon occasion, I’ve had to reach over and whisk the crumbs off my dear friend’s face was not relevant at the moment. What mattered was that her feelings not be hurt.
“It hurt like the dickens,” Wynnell said. “I don’t think I’ll have it done again.”
“But you look like a movie star,” I said. “Really.”
“Oh Abby, you really should stop lying. With your height, someone with a nose that long will not look in proportion.” She glanced around. “Ahem—speaking of truth stretching, where is the maestro?”
“She’s in the ladies’ room answering a call of distress.”
“Serves her right; I told her that eating the entire ‘blooming onion’ by herself was not such a good idea.”
Mama sighed wearily. “No, it’s— Oh, there she is. C.J., darling, I was about to send a plumber in there after you.”
“That was sweet of you, Mozella,” C.J. said, and slid in next to Mama, “but I’m too big to be flushed down a toilet.” Enormous tears suddenly filled her eyes and shook her gargantuan head slowly from side to side. “If only the same could be said for poor Cousin Theopolous Ledbetter. He was as thin as a rail, so thin, in fact, that if you looked at him from above you might mistake him for a crack in the sidewalk. One day he rode his mule into town, to one of those stores where the toilets have the automatic flushing.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Poor Cousin Theopolous got flushed down the toilet and was never heard from again.”
My former sister-in-law and current very dear friend turned her wounded eyes on me. “You don’t need to be so rude, Abby. Besides, you’re wrong; he did turn up again. He turned up in a sewer in Flushing, New York. That’s how the town got its name.”
“Ah,” the three of us said.
“You guys don’t believe me, do you?”
We nodded this way and that, neither confirming nor denying anything. Since our response was all too familiar, C.J. wisely let it go.
“I called that number in the stall,” she said. “It was for Domino’s Pizza. Can you believe someone would pull a prank like that?”
“Yes,” we all said in concert again.
This time the big gal
Chapter 7
O h no, ma’am. I’m taking a creative writing class and my assignment was to listen to some dialogue in a public place and to use it in a story of my own. You and your sister were da bomb.”
“She’s not my sister; she’s my mother! And the bomb is in the turkey, for crying out loud.”
“It’s an honest mistake, young man,” Mama said, as she went from patting her pearls to patting her hair. Trust me; I was never going to hear the end of this.
I took a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet and held it out to the young man. He was about the age of my son, Charlie, which made him perhaps twenty.
“Here,” I said, “take this. It might help move dialogue along—like back to the table where you started.”
The kid remained seated. His eyes were uncomprehending; I may as well have been speaking Cantonese.
“Abby,” Mama whispered, “I don’t think that money talks as loud as it used to.”
I pulled out another twenty, followed by a ten. “Either you take a hike now, junior, or we do.”
He was a good Southern boy. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, before skedaddling.
“Who was that young stud muffin?”
I looked up from my café latte to see a strange woman with familiar eyes standing inside my comfort zone. Even worse, after brazenly bumping my shoulder with her hips, she slid into the booth next to me.
“ Excusez-moi ,” I said, “but have we met?”
“Abby, it’s me!”
“Wynnell? B-but you have two eyebrows!”
“I know,” Mama purred, “doesn’t she look fabulous? I was lying about the lip wax.”
“Is that what you said, Mozella? And you believed that, Abby? I don’t have a mustache, do I?”
“Of course not, dear.” The fact that, upon occasion, I’ve had to reach over and whisk the crumbs off my dear friend’s face was not relevant at the moment. What mattered was that her feelings not be hurt.
“It hurt like the dickens,” Wynnell said. “I don’t think I’ll have it done again.”
“But you look like a movie star,” I said. “Really.”
“Oh Abby, you really should stop lying. With your height, someone with a nose that long will not look in proportion.” She glanced around. “Ahem—speaking of truth stretching, where is the maestro?”
“She’s in the ladies’ room answering a call of distress.”
“Serves her right; I told her that eating the entire ‘blooming onion’ by herself was not such a good idea.”
Mama sighed wearily. “No, it’s— Oh, there she is. C.J., darling, I was about to send a plumber in there after you.”
“That was sweet of you, Mozella,” C.J. said, and slid in next to Mama, “but I’m too big to be flushed down a toilet.” Enormous tears suddenly filled her eyes and shook her gargantuan head slowly from side to side. “If only the same could be said for poor Cousin Theopolous Ledbetter. He was as thin as a rail, so thin, in fact, that if you looked at him from above you might mistake him for a crack in the sidewalk. One day he rode his mule into town, to one of those stores where the toilets have the automatic flushing.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Poor Cousin Theopolous got flushed down the toilet and was never heard from again.”
My former sister-in-law and current very dear friend turned her wounded eyes on me. “You don’t need to be so rude, Abby. Besides, you’re wrong; he did turn up again. He turned up in a sewer in Flushing, New York. That’s how the town got its name.”
“Ah,” the three of us said.
“You guys don’t believe me, do you?”
We nodded this way and that, neither confirming nor denying anything. Since our response was all too familiar, C.J. wisely let it go.
“I called that number in the stall,” she said. “It was for Domino’s Pizza. Can you believe someone would pull a prank like that?”
“Yes,” we all said in concert again.
This time the big gal
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