Just Salad – Third Avenue and 83rd Street
I’m in line getting my friend Millie’s lunch. Whenever I go to the post office I call and ask if she’d like her favorite salad.
She loves when I offer to do this since it’s too far for them to deliver and too cold for her to go herself.
It’s normally a zoo….anyplace that sells organic greens chopped and tossed for 6.99 is a hit here in Manhattan. The line is sometimes out the door.
It’s only 11, when they open, so I’ve beat the lunch crowd. I order like it’s for Michele Obama because Millie, also a beautiful African American, is very fussy.
God forbid I come back with arugula instead of iceberg, there will be hell to pay.
One time she sent me to get her favorite chocolate covered raisins and didn’t like the packaging they came in making me go all the way back to exchange them. I’ve learned, get it right or else.
Why am I so vigilant and eager to please her flight of food fancy? She’s my fax connection. Since my machine collapsed…well, it was after I threw it against the wall, she kindly faxes for me from her office…scans as well. Saves me so much money until I replace the one I got mad at. It’s only been three years.
So this really isn’t about Millie, it’s about what happened while I was waiting in line.
There’s a little kid, three if he’s a day, running around while his mother yaks on her phone. He’s very cute in jeans and a hoodie that says, Come To My Party, with the date on it.
He’s collecting all the plastic stand-up menus on each table parading them in a perfect row. His mother, who’s paying little attention, sees me smiling at him. I say to her, “He’s the cutest little boy…I bet he’s gonna be a decorator.”
Let me just say, I meant that sweetly since I would never make fun of a child. But he’s so very organized for a three-year old. I’d love if he came and rearranged my closet.
It was a joke.
“Ma, I’ll cawl ya back,” she said, slamming down her cell. “Are you insinuating moy son is gonna be gay?”
This leaves me speechless, I mean how ridiculous is that? Despite the look on her face, I start to laugh, I can’t help it. As for the kid, lost in his menus, he’s very adept at amusing himself because I imagine she’s on her phone a lot.
Just a hunch.
It seems all mothers with strollers are on their iPhone as they push their way, and everyone out of it, down the street as if they own it…but that’s another essay.
I decide to just ignore her since she’s clearly nuts, but she’s not letting me go that easily. While I’m making sure Millie’s salad is up to snuff, she’s screaming…
“I’ve neva been so insolted in moy whole ly-ff. Wait till oy tell his fatha.”
I’m counting…one…two…three…so not to lose my temper especially after getting a text from Millie saying…no crutons. The kid is still busy organizing so after she calls me a bitch as I’m paying, I look at the kid, look at her and say…”Why don’t you have cards made up…I could hand them out to my friends since we could all use a few decorating tips.”
Before she could stab me I grabbed the salad and ran.
Wish I could say I vamped out, but you know those girls originally from Long Island, they’re known to kill ya for a parking spot.