Theme Week 3 Do Over: What language is that anyway?
It was my first full day in Rhode Island. I woke up earlier than the others and decided to venture out for coffee. I had just arrived from south Florida to stay with my sister. She lived in a small town impossibly situated in the middle of the woods with city all around. A shoebox forest we called it.
I knew that I had passed a small store on my way in the night before but not much of anything else. Surely, they'd have coffee in there. It was dark when I drove in so I didn’t see that there was a diner right across the lot from the store. “Perfect.” I thought as I pulled in.
I knew before I moved up that things would be different. A small town in New England may as well be another country when you’re coming from south Florida. But I was absolutely not prepared for just how different it would be.
She was standing half way between the counter and the door and before I could even step inside she asked, “Waddle it be?”
“Excuse me?”
“You want something?” She had a bank bag in one hand while her handbag, coffee and cigarette dangled precariously in the other.
“Just a large coffee, please.”
She started around the corner of the bar and dropped her burdens loudly on the edge.
“You want that regular?”
“Yes, please”. I watched as she scooped two big spoonfuls of sugar into my beautiful coffee and then drown the whole thing in milk. “Buck 7”, she said.
“Um. I didn’t want cream and sugar”.
“Well, you said reglar dinacha?”
“I thought you meant regular or decaf.”
“No. Reglar.”
“Oh. Well could I just have it black?”
“I spose. You aint from round here arya?”
“No. Just got in last night. Ahh….nice and hot and black. Thank you.”
“You wouldn’t be looking to work woodcha?”
“Excuse me?”
“A job. You wantin work.” She looked as if I were already late fo my shift.
I really should have thought about it longer than I did. I was coming from 3 years in a south Florida commercial insurance agency. What do I know of diner digs but eating at them? And as far as I could discern we weren’t even speaking the same language.
“Sure”. I said. “I could do this”.
“When couldcha start? My girl just got done and I gotta go to the peoples and make the drop”.
“Well, I‘m not really sure what to do.” (or what you just said).
“Aw that don’t make no difference. You just pour the boys their coffee and ask if you got questions. Everybody round here knows how it goes. I’ll be back to the ower.”
I knew that nothing good could come of this even as I was putting the apron around my neck. But it was an adventure and I’m always up for that. Besides, how tough could it be? I just have to pour the boys their coffee. Maybe fry something. Easy enough.
First customer arrived 45 minutes into my “shift”.
He walked in, ball-cap pulled just so down the middle of his forehead. His t-shirt, worn around his bulging belly proclaimed that he’d rather be fishin’. Okay. This is it. First customer of my diner career.
“Hi. What can get you?”
“I’d like a coffee cabinet.”
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“A cabinet, a coffee cabinet.”
“Well, I might be able to scrounge a few pieces of wood together from out back, but I’m not building anything”. I said with my wittiest smile.
“What?” He smiled not at all.
“You do know that this is a diner, right?”
“What?”
“Yeah, what? What was it that you wanted? A cabinet right?”
“Yeah. I want a cabinet, you know a frappe”.
This is just getting weird.
“The machine” he said, his eyes darting over my left shoulder. “The frappe machine, you know?”
“What did you say?”
“The Frappe machine! The frappe machine!” He was practically screaming at me and pushing his finger over my shoulder.
“’That frappin machine?' What does that mean? Are you cursing at me?”
We eyed each other suspiciously for a few seconds while each of us tried to fish out whatever reason we could from the nonsense that had just passed between us. Finally, he broke the silence.
“I’ll have a coke and a cheesebuggah...to go.”
I didn’t keep that job. I got done as soon as Mrs. Hill got back from the peoples. I decided I’d wait and look for work in Maine after I learned the frappin' language.
I knew that I had passed a small store on my way in the night before but not much of anything else. Surely, they'd have coffee in there. It was dark when I drove in so I didn’t see that there was a diner right across the lot from the store. “Perfect.” I thought as I pulled in.
I knew before I moved up that things would be different. A small town in New England may as well be another country when you’re coming from south Florida. But I was absolutely not prepared for just how different it would be.
She was standing half way between the counter and the door and before I could even step inside she asked, “Waddle it be?”
“Excuse me?”
“You want something?” She had a bank bag in one hand while her handbag, coffee and cigarette dangled precariously in the other.
“Just a large coffee, please.”
She started around the corner of the bar and dropped her burdens loudly on the edge.
“You want that regular?”
“Yes, please”. I watched as she scooped two big spoonfuls of sugar into my beautiful coffee and then drown the whole thing in milk. “Buck 7”, she said.
“Um. I didn’t want cream and sugar”.
“Well, you said reglar dinacha?”
“I thought you meant regular or decaf.”
“No. Reglar.”
“Oh. Well could I just have it black?”
“I spose. You aint from round here arya?”
“No. Just got in last night. Ahh….nice and hot and black. Thank you.”
“You wouldn’t be looking to work woodcha?”
“Excuse me?”
“A job. You wantin work.” She looked as if I were already late fo my shift.
I really should have thought about it longer than I did. I was coming from 3 years in a south Florida commercial insurance agency. What do I know of diner digs but eating at them? And as far as I could discern we weren’t even speaking the same language.
“Sure”. I said. “I could do this”.
“When couldcha start? My girl just got done and I gotta go to the peoples and make the drop”.
“Well, I‘m not really sure what to do.” (or what you just said).
“Aw that don’t make no difference. You just pour the boys their coffee and ask if you got questions. Everybody round here knows how it goes. I’ll be back to the ower.”
I knew that nothing good could come of this even as I was putting the apron around my neck. But it was an adventure and I’m always up for that. Besides, how tough could it be? I just have to pour the boys their coffee. Maybe fry something. Easy enough.
First customer arrived 45 minutes into my “shift”.
He walked in, ball-cap pulled just so down the middle of his forehead. His t-shirt, worn around his bulging belly proclaimed that he’d rather be fishin’. Okay. This is it. First customer of my diner career.
“Hi. What can get you?”
“I’d like a coffee cabinet.”
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“A cabinet, a coffee cabinet.”
“Well, I might be able to scrounge a few pieces of wood together from out back, but I’m not building anything”. I said with my wittiest smile.
“What?” He smiled not at all.
“You do know that this is a diner, right?”
“What?”
“Yeah, what? What was it that you wanted? A cabinet right?”
“Yeah. I want a cabinet, you know a frappe”.
This is just getting weird.
“The machine” he said, his eyes darting over my left shoulder. “The frappe machine, you know?”
“What did you say?”
“The Frappe machine! The frappe machine!” He was practically screaming at me and pushing his finger over my shoulder.
“’That frappin machine?' What does that mean? Are you cursing at me?”
We eyed each other suspiciously for a few seconds while each of us tried to fish out whatever reason we could from the nonsense that had just passed between us. Finally, he broke the silence.
“I’ll have a coke and a cheesebuggah...to go.”
I didn’t keep that job. I got done as soon as Mrs. Hill got back from the peoples. I decided I’d wait and look for work in Maine after I learned the frappin' language.
posted by millay | 9/18/2005 12:35:00 AM
8 Comments:
Okay, you got me! Frappin' it is.
And I have to agree with the unidentified speaker in your comment on the course blog: you do not suck at dialogue. On the contrary and in spades. To be laughing with the pleased shock of recognition as I read this, I didn't need the prop of my own morning black coffee...but it didn't hurt.
Deadpan humor gently poking everyone it touches, to examine, not mock. Which brings me to a question. What I recognized was the sense of a long-polished tale being retold one more time, but that might be a matter of your art. This certainly sounds like nonfiction, but if it isn't, if it's pure imagination, it has the verisimilitude to stand against any gales of teacherly blow and froth, doncha think?
It's non-fiction embellished but not by much. And I've given in...I now drink my coffee reglar. If you can't beat em ...
And what's your take on this one or the other or both?
honestly, the other one was not meant to be published. I meant to save as a draft and had no idea it was there until i got your comment. I didn't like it. It was actually true but told exactly as you stated...Jen's retelling to me. I didn't like it but the way she spoke the dialogue made me feel I could use it. Problem was I couldn't get into her head so it came out not quite right. I knew I wanted to do the frappin' one because that's my favorite dialogue ever. Both were a good study for me...what doesn't work and what does. I still don't feel confident in my dialogue. That was an awful lot like work.
Well, this one, for all its dialogue, lets setting and character carry some of the weight, and if you're not confident with dialogue, you've already developed that tactic to lighten the burden.
I'm no believer in the strenuous theory of writing: i.e., if it doesn't hurt, it isn't good. I'm inclined to trust what comes easy. I will 'work' and do the things that are hard, but I have to scrutinize them much more afterward--not trusting them since they hurt coming.
But for the poets out there--I've read and enjoyed poems full of dialogue: Vikram Seth's Golden Gate, Byron's Don Juan.
And for my money, the Voice of Rhode Island piece does work
ayuh.....
replica backpacks, handbags, wallets, jewelry, and all kinds of really neat
Post a Comment
<< Home