Notes from a Pandemic Pothole

Abstract

Storytelling, Self, Society, Vol. 17, No. 1 (2021), pp. 86–96. Copyright © 2022 by Wayne State University Press, Detroit, MI 48201 Notes from a Pandemic Pothole Milbre Burch (At rise, Mavis Troy enters to sit at a bistro table on the patio of the café she owns. She’s in late middle age, dressed in jeans, a shirt, and a mask. She’s talking to a reporter from an NPR affiliate station.) Phew! Just finished the [breakfast/lunch] rush! Already exhausted—an’ it’s not even [9 AM/2 PM]! . . . Listen, since we’re out here on the patio—an’ you’re sitting over there—I reckon it’s safe to take my mask off. That’ll make it easier for you to understan’ me. No, you keep yours on. Yeah, patio’s real nice. My brothers built this little mini-park area so we could expand our outdoor service. You gonna record this? Wait!!! Lucille—have you met her yet—manages our staff. . . . She’s the one you want to talk to . . . (She shouts to someone inside the café) Lucille, honey! Are you comin out here? . . . All right . . . Suit yourself. (to interviewer) She’s bein stubborn. As usual. Guess we should go on and start. Notes from a Pandemic Pothole Burch Burch n 87 Yeah, I’m a little nervous. Never been interviewed for the radio before. But my daughter Sarah reminded me, it’s public radio, so nobody I know’ll hear the show . . . No, I’m not ’fraid ta upset people. I always speak my mind. I jus’ never had a great big, ole, invisible audience before! What’s the name a’ your story? “America’s New Normal”? Hmm. Didn’t know we had one yet. How you wanna start? ’K. Today’s January 15, 2021 . . . nine days after . . . well, you know . . . . . . My name’s Mavis. Mavis. Means “songbird,” though I can’t sing a note. Mama didn’t know that when she had me. Said I squalled every time she left the room. Daddy said it was clear that I’s born with opinions. That hasn’t changed. Mama musta read the name in a book, thought it’d sound good with our last name: Fraser. That means “strawberry”—but not a single one of us’s red-headed. My married name’s Troy. Means “foot soldier.” . . . Yes, I am . . . I’m real curious ’bout words. I started datin Scottie Troy in eighth grade. He grew up to be a good-lookin, God-fearin man with a’ salty sense of humor. Loved all three’a those thangs ’bout him. When he got drafted, I tole ’em I’d wait for ’em. An’ I did. We got hitched soon as he came back from Viet Nam. I’m lucky so much of the boy I loved came home. “Talk about a ‘Lost Cause!’” he said when he got back. An’ then he said no more. But from that time on, I saw how easy it was for him to get winded. An’ I listened to him moan in his sleep ever’ night for the rest a’ his life. 88 n Notes from a Pandemic Pothole He came back to the job he left: managin a restaurant where I waited tables. We saved up together for years so we could buy a café of our own. Bought this one the same year we had our baby girl, Sarah . . . Means “princess” an’ “joy.” To me, she’s both. . . . Well, over the years, I reckon I’ve worn a lotta different hats: waitress, cashier, cook. Bussed tables, warshed dishes, mopped floors. Anythin that needed to be done, I’ve done it. Our Sarah was nearly ’bout born here. I’m not kiddin: my water broke at the cash register! God, that lil gal loved her daddy, even kep’ his name after she got married. Said it reminded her to stay scrappy, be a survivor. She’s taken to callin the three of us—me, an’ her, an’ her daughter Bets—“The Trojan Women.” (Rolls her eyes) It’s a play—that’s a’ Drama teacher’s joke. She’s a p’rfessor here. First person in my family to go...