Why do people talk so much? I’m amazed at how often someone traps me into an endless, one-sided conversation.
It happened this morning while running and I so tried avoiding this person who’s a very boring weatherman. Shit, I thought when I saw him trundling towards me. Why didn’t I bring my phone. A gal pal of mine taught me a little trick. If there’s someone you’re trying to avoid or get away from, you just pretend to get a call. “Excuse me, but I have to take this.” Love that, but sadly one does need a phone to pull it off.
He sidled beside me never shutting up for forty fucking minutes. Imagine Muzak in shorts.
When I finally escaped it got me thinking. Who was the very first babbler in my life?
Ann Raider, that’s who. She was twelve and I eleven and lived in the haunted house on the corner of Beechmont and Main Street. Some German scientist had lived and died there and rumor had it once in a while he’d still pop in the kitchen for a beer. You can understand why I never had a sleepover at Ann’s house. He’s harmless, Ann would say and always wears his bathrobe.
Her mother raised prized poodles that competed in the local dog show with names like, Little Lord Fauntleroy and Bell Tor Beck Beck. They also had those weird cuts that made them look like neurotic figure skaters (boy, did I just pop a file). Mrs. Raider only wore vintage Chanel suits with moth holes and was so bow-legged you could have ridden your bike between her legs. She had a sister named Candy who used to steal road signs for a hobby. When you walked into her room you were met by a huge yellow yield sign and a placard that said…MEN AT WORK.
Ann was very well-endowed for a twelve year old…buxom, my mother called it. “That Ann is certainly very buxom,” she’d say every time Ann came over. I thought it meant she was good at volleyball and no one told me differently. Her father was a traveling salesman for Warner Bras so one could say Ann was also well-supported.
Ann talked a lot, actually she never stopped talking and it was always about boys. Puberty hit her early and she was off to the races leaving me and my dolls in her dust.
When I think about it, Camille talks a lot. She can do an hour easily on a dress she saw: what it looked like, why it’s worth eight hundred bucks, why she should buy it and who would look positively terrible in it. By the time she’s through you expect it to have a name like Dot or Min.
“Will Dot be joining us Camille?”
“No, fraid not, she’s still at the tailors.”
On occasion I do tell Camille to shut-up but not very often. She’s at least interesting and more than a little entertaining, but that weatherman should just stick to rain and snow because when you see him coming even the sun makes a beeline behind the clouds.