“How ya doin?”
I am usually a fly on the wall here at Starbuck’s so the question caught me off guard.
Sitting next to me, almost invisible until she spoke, is a little old woman.
With a thick Jersey accent. And if I had meant, New Jersey, I would have said so. This woman is from Jersey.
“Fine, you?” I try to be polite, when I can. Plus, this woman is about 90 and from a generation I absolutely adore.
“I’m good, I’m good.” She took a sip of her coffee.
If memory serves, this is a generation that loves to chat over coffee.
“What brings you to the beach today?”
And with that, we are off to the races.
Marie, my new friend, talks for the next 5 minutes straight. Pausing only to sip her coffee regularly and blow her nose twice.
She is waiting for her niece to come pick her up and take her to one of her daughter’s houses.
She flew in from Newark last night and was staying at a hotel up the street.
She is in town to see the family, she hadn’t seen them since Edgar died, her husband of 70 years.
This entire conversation takes place with her severe Brooklyn accent. Also, Marie probably smoked for a portion of that 90 years, which gives her this deep husky voice, along with that accent.
She is an absolute pisser.
Marie has hit that age that she either doesn’t realize that she is mouthing off or no longer cares.
There are a few highlights that stand out in both my notes and my memory of my talk with Marie.
Her great grandson, Martin, might be a feg. For those who are not familiar with the Jersey accent, a feg is the word “Fag” with a thick accent.
Marie’s entire reason for suspecting Martin’s feet do not touch the ground, (Everybody got that?) is that Martin has a pierced nose and both ears are pierced.
The daughter she will be visiting with today is “Dina, the middle girl.” Dina is married to Frank and they have two kids. Edgar, God rest his soul, always suspected that Frank was retarded or at the least a communist.
She then proceded to stop in the middle of her sentance and glare at a woman in her twenties, walking by with a black dress and red heels.
Ah, red heels and the older generation.
As Marie put it, “That girl looks like a whore!” (Pronounced hoe-wuh)
This as the poor girl is still within earshot.
You never saw a head whip around so fast.
Then Marie regailed me with a story about when her aunt died in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner and no one noticed.
I love this woman.
There is such a frickin delight in hearing someone with a total lack of caring about what anyone might think. I still can’t figure out if it is a lack of understanding or caring. It still adds up to the same thing.
Rude talk in public.
With me as the giggling witness.
God, I love my life.