Wading River Dogs and More

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First thing she says, “Where were you? Meatball threw up again last night, and Billy didn’t show, no phone call or anything. I’ve had it with him, I am definitely reading him the riot act. Get the mop, now that you’re here, and use some of that wintergreen too, the place stinks. Who’s going to come in, with a stink like that?” I say, huffed up because of “Where were you?” like she’s accusing me: “Excuse me, Susan? Do you have any idea how long it takes to get to the shop now with the em-effin traffic?” Susan doesn’t like me to use language in the presence of the animals, she’s funny that way, but when I’m in a bad mood sometimes, it’s hard not to use a little language. The traffic has always been bad, it was bad when I was a kid, but hey, I’m sorry, this is a whole new ball of wax bad. I mean, it’s the em-effin LIE out here these days, from all the tourists and government people and scientists coming to see the alien. Our little windy uphill-downhill roads on the North Shore just can’t handle the cars and charter buses. I mean, I had to sit at Echo Avenue and Miller Place Road for half an hour because of the backup all the way to 25A. And there didn’t even used to be a light there. I timed it: half an hour to go one lousy block. People are on their way to Shoreham, though the cops won’t let you near it, not even near enough to use your binoculars, unless you have a VIP pass, or else people are on their way to Brookhaven Labs, where there are shows now like Epcot telling the public about the alien. Forget the East End, no one goes there anymore. It’s one detour after another. From all the car fumes, sitting in that god-awful traffic, I came down with one of the worst headaches I ever had, that’s the reason I’m in a mood today. I hate headaches more than colds or fevers.

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