Sometimes, I doubt Duck, my better half, comprehends the rigors involved in being a full-time writer, house-husband and critter-sitter.
He accuses me of fabricating material. This afternoon's encounter was no exception.
I ran into the big city (Macon) for errands and a few super-sized items from the Mega-Mart. I stopped in the Nu-Way wiener stand for a late afternoon pick-me-up, a couple of all-the-way dogs. The Nu-Way is a landmark, on Cotton Avenue since the nineteen-teens. Even Oprah ate there when she was in town.
The place was crowded, but a counter stool was open next to a bag lady. Bag ladies portend interesting, if incoherent, conversation.
This one looked as though she'd persevered the apocalypse. Vexing an unlit cigarette, earthly possessions spilling from an enormous gold lamé tote between her feet, the nubs of a couple of gnawed dogs on her plate, decked out in a blond fright wig, though it wasn't Halloween.
Not actually that shabby, she looked as though she'd hit Goodwill and made a decent haul.
"There but for the grace of God," thought I. It seemed she was close to leaving and might need help with the bill. I slipped onto the stool alongside.
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