MA or WWW starter - draft
Jun. 2nd, 2018 01:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vevevavoom"The way Mama Lavigne speaks, you'd think she be bothered. But she dead, man, so she don't care about anythin' like parkin' tickets," Eleonora shakes her head, her head that's resting in the palms of her hands and then throws them up and slaps the bar in frustration. Leaning forward, she points a finger at the bar tender who was wiping it down and smiling to himself.
"I swear, if she asks me what da price of milk is dees days, Fred, Im'ma gonna banish her butt to a 20x20 section of St. Louis cemetery. You hear? Don'choo laugh at me. Im'ma do it, Fred. You can tell her that. Gone are deh days dat she wake me up at the asscrack of dawn to complain about da grits at Joe's. What? She got ghost Alzheimer's or sumptin' now? Joe's been closed for the last eight years. C'mon, Fred," she urges, her voice twisted in frustration. "Do sumpthin, will ya? Ain't got time for dis. Every damn night," she emphasizes her annoyance by rapping her knuckles on the bar table with each word. It got worse the closer to hurricane season they got, as if the ancestors had some anxiety over it and needed to be comforted like a child that you had to talk to after a nightmare.
"Eh." Eleonora waves a dismissive Fred away and turns around on the bar stool. A few people threw her side eye. It was probably because the last Fred to work in this bar died five years ago, three years after his wife, Mama Lavigne, did. Eleonora shook her head and sipped on her second chicory infused coffee of the morning. No milk, a departure from the cafe au lait that she likes so much. Black coffee was necessity now thanks to Mama Livagne's early morning visits.
She turns around and looks into the bar. Clock just struck twelve in the afternoon and people were already day drunk. Mostly tourists but not only.
"I swear, if she asks me what da price of milk is dees days, Fred, Im'ma gonna banish her butt to a 20x20 section of St. Louis cemetery. You hear? Don'choo laugh at me. Im'ma do it, Fred. You can tell her that. Gone are deh days dat she wake me up at the asscrack of dawn to complain about da grits at Joe's. What? She got ghost Alzheimer's or sumptin' now? Joe's been closed for the last eight years. C'mon, Fred," she urges, her voice twisted in frustration. "Do sumpthin, will ya? Ain't got time for dis. Every damn night," she emphasizes her annoyance by rapping her knuckles on the bar table with each word. It got worse the closer to hurricane season they got, as if the ancestors had some anxiety over it and needed to be comforted like a child that you had to talk to after a nightmare.
"Eh." Eleonora waves a dismissive Fred away and turns around on the bar stool. A few people threw her side eye. It was probably because the last Fred to work in this bar died five years ago, three years after his wife, Mama Lavigne, did. Eleonora shook her head and sipped on her second chicory infused coffee of the morning. No milk, a departure from the cafe au lait that she likes so much. Black coffee was necessity now thanks to Mama Livagne's early morning visits.
She turns around and looks into the bar. Clock just struck twelve in the afternoon and people were already day drunk. Mostly tourists but not only.
