Granny’s Hog Stinks

The other day at Starbucks I wound up standing next to this old lady who looked very out of place. I’d never heard anyone say “Venti mocha no whip with foam and nutmeg” in an old person’s voice. That’s not to say it’s never happened before, but it caught me off guard.

We were both staring at the same New York Times front page on top of the stack next to the counter. It had news about the hurricane, and so I mumbled some comments about what a tragedy it was, and how I wished there was more I could do to help, etc. She listened politely, nodding, and then a look crept into her eyes which reminded me of the fabled center of such a hurricane. She began humming the tune to “Jesus Hits Like the Atom Bomb,” and I couldn’t tell if it was a fearful or a hopeful hum.  Maybe both.  Probably neither.

I perfunctorily retrieved my brew as the faggot behind the counter waxed shriller in his impatient summons, “Grande LATte!”  The smell of the place surged with me out the door and into my truck, and swirled around with the leather seat odor before succumbing to the sulfur and tobacco of a pipe ignition.  

It struck me for a half of a moment that the sheer pleasantness of it all was stretched to the breaking point to cover up the stench that must be New Orleans.  The putrefied soul of a people and a nation lay in mounds and filthy pools in the Big Easy, tenuously veiled by a saran wrap thin cover of giddy comfort.

I thought about what I might do, but then I caught sight of the old lady on her Harley, laughing, and my thoughts turned back to my schedule for the day.