(Busta) There’s Only Eleven Days Left! (/Busta)

Posted: December 11, 2012 in rants
Tags: , , , , , ,

“Well,” Marcy began, “I just aged about ten years in a few minutes today.”

“Um …” I began. I just came off a marathon of Doctor Who episodes. My mind was still thinking about things like temporal displacement and time traveller’s paradoxes. Had Marcy (whom you may recall from such posts as Cane-Free Fridays and Bowling Shirts. and New Year’s Rockin’ Eve, Grown and/or Sexy Style!) managed to stumble upon a working time machine? Sweet! I thought. But, no.

“Nyota (not her real name) just called me from her father’s place,” Marcy continued. “She reminded me that she was gonna be an adult in eleven days. An. Adult.”

“Whoa,” I said.

“Wow,” I added, astutely.

“Holy crap,” I concluded.

“Yeah,” Marcy said. “We are old.”

“What you mean ‘we’, black woman?” I asked.

“‘We’, as in ‘you’ and ‘I’,” Marcy countered. “I know you remember being around Nyota when she was a two-year-old.”

And, then it hit me. Yeah, I remembered. The three of us were hanging out one day, Marcy, Nyota and I. We were having dinner at one of those chain, “family-style” restaurants, with pictures of the food on the laminated menus. This was the one known for their pies, I think. Marcy was still new at the whole “mommy” thing; I was new at the whole “hanging out with my friend who’s now somebody’s mom” thing; and Nyota was new at the whole “everything” thing, what with her being two and all. Nyota liked to sing. Everywhere. At the top of her lungs. Ever hear a two-year-old singing at the top of her lungs? I suppose we thought it was adorable.

The waitress, however, didn’t. She was cool about it, though. She came by our table with our drinks. “I know, that sometimes,” she began with the warmest smile you could imagine, “we tend to think our own little ones are just so cute when they sing and all that, but maybe, we could take a minute to think about what the people around us are thinking?” she suggested.

Marcy smiled. “Oh, right,” she nodded. To Nyota, she said, “Okay, sweetie, let’s calm down a little, okay?” We were smiles all around. It wasn’t until our waitress had left that we realized.

“Did … did she just tell us to ‘keep our brat quiet’?” I asked, incredulously.

Marcy looked at me, eyes wide. “I think she just did,” she answered.

“And she was so – ” I started.

“So nice about it!” she finished.

“We just got told! Snap!” I chuckled nervously. We ate the rest of our dinner in slightly embarrassed silence, occasionally marvelling at our waitress’ tact.

That’s the Nyota I think about.

Not the one that is a natural comedian, a burgeoning stunner, and a soon-to-be high school grad and full-fledged grown up, with the ability to vote and buy guns and whatnot. In fact, I don’t want to think about the Nyota from the restaurant doing grown-up things, like maybe working her way through college as a waitress in a place with plastic laminated menus, dealing with screaming babies and their clueless folks.

So, yeah, now I feel about ten years older too.

Thanks for that, Marcy.


words and pictures © Christopher Ward. All rights reserved.


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