 |
The give-and-take at the big round table at the rear of our hometown restaurant was good-natured joking, never serious and extremely entertaining for the locals.
It was going hot and heavy when I arrived; oldtimey writers used to use the term “snappy rejoinders” for these exchanges.
“Where you been?” one asked.
“I been puny,” the other said. “Couldn’t come to town.”
“Puny? I wish you wouldn’t use them old words like that. Tourists might hear and think we’re all inbred loonies.”
“You’re the only inbred loony I know …”
“Now boys,” the moderator said, freshening up cups with a steaming coffee pot he’d liberated from the waitress station. “Don’t get personal or we’ll have to separate you.”
“Better n’ that,” one of the spectators offered. “Make ’em go sit at a table by thurselves, so folks won’t think they’re associated with us decent people.”
“I’ll remember that,” the mayor said and rejoined the fake spat with vigor. “So you were puny … what kind of sickness did you have … le’s all hope it wadn’t anything trivial …”
“The doc said it was bad contagious,” the other said. “I was hoping you’d get it and miss the town council meeting tonight … you remember the monthly session when y’all get together and rob the taxpayers?”
“Such ingratitude from one of the commoners,” the mayor said. “I almost wish I hadn’t stole that last election … but I do enjoy the status and attention …”
“A lynch mob may be the only attention you’ll be getting …”
“Here now, I’ve already warned y’all about hitting below the belt,” the moderator said, returning to the big table. “Don’t get personal again.”
“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” the lawyer intoned. “I been puny, and it reflected in my poor attendance record here.”
“I have a sinking feeling that we are all about to hear the details,” the mayor said. “Pass me one of those stale doughnuts they give us in this fine establishment.”
Two loggers, a smirking realtor and an old insurance lady all pulled their chairs closer, grinning in anticipation of the looming match.
“I got sick on a Monday … tried to cure it myself with folk remedies and over-the-counter stuff … finally went to the doctor and got some relief yesterday.”
The crowd grew solemn, buying into the serious nature of the matter, an unusual stance not visible here often. Like a comedian with perfect timing, the speaker pounced.
“You’ve heard of old people breaking a rib in a coughing fit haven’t you? Honest, I coughed so hard it sprained a muscle in my chest. (Pause, for effect.) I told my wife it would have been awful except for me being the strong physical specimen that I am …”
Groans went up in a howling chorus. There were shaking heads, rueful grins – they knew they’d been taken. I had the waitress put my coffee in a foam cup to go. They were still snickering when I left.
Wally Avett first wrote for the Cherokee Scout as editor in 1969. His books are available as signed copies at the Scout office in Murphy. Call him at 837-5531 or email wallyavett@gmail.com.