Dime Frappes , This Girl Only

Florie, whom you know I'm making up every time I write about her, (but never mind that) is one tough mama, 'gate. Let me tell you.

Yesterday I had to swing by and hang out for an hour at her very busy, tiny Get And GO! go on get the hell out of here it's crowded store, which is just off the interstate, half way between two major cities.

She radiates scary, frightful danger to anyone who might act up. I saw her deal with every type of Rhodes Psycho you can imagine, that late afternoon hour. The sarcastic out of towner miffed at the unexpected, the menacing punks in trios playing with butane lighters at the register, the harried 30-something suburban mother impatient and thoughtlessly blaming, the drunk who'd already had it up to the chin, the obsequious would-be armed robber, the nervous meth heads, the young illegals wanting to buy beer without an i.d., the dumb kid without a f'ng shirt ("next time you come in, wear a shirt," she said to the cash register), and most infuriating of all, the common ninnies who hold up the line while trying to decide if they want the lottery ticket with the balloon or fireworks theme.

The Phooka has a dead-pan M.O. I'm learning to mimic back to her (just to see what I get in return).

When she complains about what will have to be done about some injustice, she reminds me of my six year old nephew Noah, a high minded child we actually have to take serious.

Her eyes narrow and she faces you square on, stares straight in your eyes, speaking in measured terms like a bail bondsman. Yeah, like my six year old nephew.

She deserves to be at home with her kids while her husband is out making a million clams a year.

If only there were a husband. If only there were some kids.

I don't get her. I hardly ever know what's going on. When I stop by, it's like I didn't have any idea I was going to stop by. It's not like me. What am I doing here, wha,...but I'm getting off subject.

Then when there is a good customer who makes a good natured joke, though she will not laugh, when she hands back the change she allows him or her to see a glimpse of friendly (n.) in her eyes.

I witnessed this. It was kind of a relief.

When by some strange coincidence the whole world stopped coming long enough to allow for the store to be empty for sixty seconds, she'd come over to me at the end of the counter and put her forehead on my collar bone.

A couple of her co-workers from one of her other jobs came in and were all happy to see her and teasing her about something and noticed me. They were youngsters, kind of cute,



and they surprised me with forward friendliness: so you're the one, haha, we thought she made you up. (I almost said, no i made her up.)

Anyway, I'm someone somehow. Someone around.

Don't fade away...