A matronly monologue.

Baby, work is crazy enough. A customer buys a detailed used car and inspects it and then, 60 days later, claims his rims came scratched. They won’t replace the rim this idiot scratched on a curb, so He rolls up to the front door. I never realized how nice people were when we were young when these buildings were made, until now, when you find yourself working behind a counter or a desk in a business and realize that any asshole can drive right through the storefront window or glass doors and do you in. That is exactly what this man was threatening to do.

He pulls up in front of the showroom and guns the engine, threatening that he is not leaving until he sees the boss, who is a petite little woman who I’m sure you would be into. All of the men from Service are up there, the desk men too.

“Where she at, a wanz ta tell her how bad her bidness is!”

Well, the dumb coon could not see her because she’s five feet tall in heels behind a line of big black men. The cops are being called left and right, you can believe that, and this coon is calling the cops too, even as he is threatening to drive his car through the showroom window!

Then, we get the Kaweens! Thousand dollar hair does, painted nails and wearing just enough cloth strips to keep those giant titties from flopping all over their five hundred dollar purse. They generally want to kick a white bitches ass. But the younger women protect me, give it right back, like, “Bitch, you talkin’ all high en mighty, but what junior high school bitch dressed you dis mornin’?”

Oh, then its on!

We did have this one really decent, respectful black woman. She had a legit complaint and we were addressing it. Then her white girlfriend comes in and wants to fight, is talking all this racism and discrimination bullshit. The white bitches are the worst. They usually show up with their black man, who they are buying the car for and who they parade around like he is king of the world.

Well, it could be worse, I could be getting called a bitch while I’m standing behind a register loading up all the shit these people eat and drink. At least at the dealership I sit. Baby, gettin’ old sucks. I’m hurtin’.

So, I was walking to the store to shop at about 1:30 in the afternoon and this well-groomed Latino man comes up to me, he’s a young man. Usually the Latino men—really always, all except this time—they go out of their way to give you space, say good morning, cross the street, step aside. But this guy was, A, Fruit, Loop!

“Ma’am do you have a bottle of water in that bag, I’m thirsty.”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

I didn’t and I remembered what you always said about when they ask for something, that its about the eyes and getting you to look down at what they want so they can get on you. Well, I was so flustered that I turned around and started heading back and he followed me. He had already passed me, then turned around and asked me for the bottle and now he was following me.

I turned and put up my hands and said, “You are freaking me out!”

“I’m thirsty ma’am. I want some water.”

I’m limping home on my tired old feet and he is following and saying, “Is it bothering you, that I am following you?”

Finally, I get to the gate and go in and turn so he’s not on my back and he stops and says, “So is this where you live, where you keep the water?”

“Yes, me and My Husband!”

He left and I kept thinking about how crackheads get so thirsty and that he was really evil. It’s just us women here, and the guy next door is now constantly drunk and worthless. He works, but she’s beautiful and fed up and I think might leave him. In any case, I don’t know Mexican, but I know drunk in Mexican, and that jabbering fool is drunk anytime he is home. Anna’s man, on the other side, he’ll come. But he wasn’t home, he was at work. It’s the same old thing when you’re a broke-ass bitch, if you have a good man that is sober and able enough to protect you, he’s not home...he might be coaching knuckleheads in Jersey, fighting in Tennessee, shoveling snow in the mountains...or, even if he’s here, he’s at work, at the gym.

Baby, the life of a broke bitch was never good, but being a broke old bitch is worse.

…

We were standing on the front porch for her monologue.

Three Latina children pile into the yard with their bicycles as she waves her empty hand and smokes her cigarette and they shout, “MegMeg, MegMeg!”

“Hey, Baby, does your mother know you are out?”

“Yes, Meg Meg!”

The fattest one, a 120 pound 5 year old, looks up tearfully over the wire fence at the one-eyed ghost standing next to Megan and the lady divines her fear, “Don’t worry, Nina, this is my very best friend, come from a long way away. He’s a good man. Don’t let the beard and the eye patch fool you.”

I waved and the girl waved back as their short broad and still pretty mother came out of the house with a papoose on her back, “MegMeg! You Poppy back!”

“Yeah, they let him out of jail again—let me see that fat little sucker on your back...she looks beautiful, just like her mamma.”

The children were now all clamoring around their mother as Megan turned to me, “Fertile Myrtle, God love her. Kicking out one was tough for me and I think she’s got another on the way.”

“So, Old Man, how long, a day, a week, a month maybe?”

“If you see the well groomed guy, you will point him out, you won’t play queen of the world?”

“I guess its a week then.”

“Two.”

“Sure, I’ll point the spic out. Coffee or tea?”