Folks

Folks down here have a funny way of just coming up to you and talking to you, like they were introduced to you a long time ago, but you just forgot. They start in on their life stories, or pick up where they think they left off the last time they saw you, even though you've never seen them before in your life.

A woman in a cafe in New Orleans came up to me while I was working on my laptop, enjoying the atmosphere and the music of the quiet afternoon. She was all frizzy hair and flappy biceps as she began, "Oh, good, someone who uses a computer. Do you mind if I ask you a question?" She then sat down across from me at the table, lit a hand-rolled cigarette and peppered me with questions about printing graphics files, about memory and hard-drive space, about her favorite online game involving virtual worlds and power medallions and warriors. "You really must play this game if you've never done it. It challenges parts of your brain that you never knew you could flex." She was an artist, over 60, with red-tinged hair blue-tinted contact lenses. I nodded and let her continue, not really sure whether I would rather be working or entertained by this extravagant stranger. She lived around the corner in the French Quarter, had come from New York many years ago, and was full of insights about life, about men, about this simulated playspace that took up so much of her computing time every day. Finally she scampered off, seeing that I did in fact have real files and serious adult stuff to take care of, and after she realized I wasn't going to join her in a computer game. Of course, I couldn't go back to working at that point, and ordered a Heineken.

A few days later, at Dot's Diner, which is a humble south Louisiana chain that serves the most amazing corn and crab chowder, I'm sitting at the counter watching the fry-cook prepare the next cholesterol-laden steak and listening to the gambling machines chime in the corner. Along comes a skinny pink-skinned farmer in overalls, must have been at least 70, yellow teeth, baseball cap grimy and comfortable looking, and he sits down next to me at the counter. "Where ya been, sweetheart? I ain't seen you 'round here for some time." I shrug and say, "How ya doin'?" He continues, "You know they ain't gettin' that much corn this yur, an' I been sayin' how it's gonna be a tough one, that farm there. Things ain't mfrfm mnya gtchn. I don't know where ya been, doll? Sometimes those thar folks is mumble mumble mmm mumble, like I said." "Yup," is all I can say, with a smile on my face, as I look to the waitstaff for any cues. They sorta look away, then at each other. He takes my hand. "You should try the plant. They got jobs down there, and good 'uns, I hear. You won't have no trouble finding a job there." I answer, "Oh, yeah?"