Spitball Army

Somewhere in America, there’s a street named after my Dad.

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Louise, from the North End

December 13th, 2007 · No Comments

Louise from the North End
(photo: spitballarmy.com)

Oh, for crissakes, Mary, it’s nearly a hundred degrees out here.  Can’t we sit down somewhere?

Mother, look, there’s Mrs. Martucci from Bingo.

Why, hello Louise.  That’s a lovely bag.  Is it new?

The handles are too long.  I have to hold it up to keep it from dragging on the sidewalk, and it makes my shoulder sore.  Mary, are we there yet?

Oh, Mother, listen, it’s the brass band from Anthony’s.  Let’s dance!

You go dance.  My feet are killing me in these heels.  I shouldn’t have worn black, I feel like I’m dressed for a funeral.  Why can’t we celebrate the Feast of St. Anthony in October?

Mother, that man there wants to take your picture.  Let’s dance!!

Kid, you snap that camera and I’ll put you on your back.  I’ve got a brick in this handbag!

Tags: fiction · language

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