Introducing two new folks, long-time residents of Paxton.
Estelle Emerson finished her after-church lunch well before her husband was done with his. She never took much time with ordinary things like eating, because food had never appealed to her much; she considered a can of Beanie Weenies apiece to be a perfectly adequate meal. She hated to have to cook and her sparse larder consisted of instants and microwaveables, with one shelf of the small pantry devoted to boxes of StoveTop and Minit-Raas and jars of Chef Boy ar Dee sauce. She was a bright spot in the browns and end-of-Winter jackets and coats in her pink shiny jacket and a wide ferny skirt with a blaze of flowers.
She consulted her purse and emerged with an old-fashioned gold compact, one that she had gotten as a graduation gift. She did one of those chin-bob, three-point scans in the mirror, touched the corner of her mouth with her pinky finger, and dropped the compact back in. Then she stood, took a quick brush at her skirt, and set a fast pace to the 50% Off Corner of the Gift Shoppe as her husband finished his pie.
Dennis, intent on scraping every last bit of coconut-laden filling from the stiff, lardy crust, sat there silently in his Sunday khakis and blue plaid 90%-cotton shirt as she disappeared through the archway. He was used to Estelle's darting, dragonfly ways, her quick, deft movements around the house, and her no-nonsense economy of living life. He dragged the side of his fork across every surface of the naked, perfect shell of the crust, opened wide and inserted every millimeter of the tine-end into his mouth. He closed his lips around it, then withdrew it slowly from the tight channel, leaving it as shining as when he'd unwrapped it and its companion spoon and knife from their paper cocoon. Giving a series of several satisfied little smacks, he checked his watch for Time-Til-Kickoff and sat back to wait. Estelle liked to take her time.
And he liked to "Watch the Line." There was always someone interesting or funny or dressed so special at these Sunday noon dinnertimes---from kids with tats and last-night's clothes, slept in or hurriedly recovered from a strange floor when noon-time sleep gave way to the quick, gnawing hunger of the young and hung-over. Young guys with earrings slid unabashedly past cashiers with their trays of mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, chicken noodles and slabs of chocolatey cake, while their dates heel-tipped past with small plates of green things which they might or might not eat, for fear of spoiling their lipstick or image or both.
An important-bustling smug-faced man with the large hair of a confident preacher herded several older folks to their seats, while a small caravan of well-dressed younger ones and several seasoned waiters followed with trays holding plates with one chicken leg or discreet small servings of turkey and gravy and big mooshy peas which comprised Walt's Senior Specials, along with little dishes of Jello or pie.
Dennis gazed longest at a petite, wrinkled lady in an outfit Twiggy would have killed for---tight little skirt and matching white pleather jacket with an oversized Newsie Cap in the same far-fetched material. Her white GoGo boots and dandelion hair-to-match gave her the air of having popped onstage between scenes on Laugh-In, and stayed frozen there for the last fifty years, beginning as Goldie Hawn and ending as Golden Girl. You could imagine her closet at home, with its lingering ghosts of Arpege and Intimate, hanging full of a lifetime of tee-ninecy ensembles of bright sweepy skirts, demure puff-sleeve white blouses, and little pumps with ankle socks.
Golden Girls Goldie's conversation matched her wardrobe---bright and effusive. Her voice flew up and down the chirpy notes of the treble clef---sometimes like the tweetings of chattery birds, and at other moments, when she was really into her story and smiling wider than wide, it quite resembled the sound of the little plinky bar in a music box.
Estelle reappeared down the hall, carrying a flamingo-covered something which blended with her bright-splashed skirt and shiny jacket. He realized that it was a bag---90-to-nothing there wasn't a thing in it, because Estelle was an acknowledged "Fool for Bags"---any kind, and shopping ones especially. She even rotated them with the seasons and often, because her scant grocery list scarce ever filled two, and she liked to show them off.
A stiff-haired crisp man in a black suit and squiggly ear-wire held the door as a smartly-dressed lady in an off-white pants-suit, pumps, and a dashingly-draped pink scarf breezed in. Estelle and Dennis waited to go out, and the man's wary eyes continued scanning them til they stepped outside before he let the door swing shut behind them. The smooth heavy white car, which they assumed belonged to the guarded lady, eased into a wide parallel at the curb, motor running and the driver as alert as the escort, as Estelle and Dennis, one brightly striding like a flitting gaudy bird, and the other headed for his La-Z-Boy, retrieved their own big Chevy, gently rounded a hitchhiking backpacker and turned toward home.
