JК
The Colorado Kid :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 3 из 81To expect every waitress to keep track of every single customer when she was busting her ass, carrying trays of steaming boiled lobsters and clams—
“That hardly seems…” She trailed off, wondering if these two old fellows, who’d probably been putting out their paper before such a thing as the minimum wage even existed, would laugh at her if she finished.
“Fair might be the word you’re lookin for,” Dave said dryly, and picked up a roll. It was the last one in the basket.
Fair came outfayyuh, which more or less rhymed withayuh, the Yankee word which seemed to mean bothyes andis that so. Stephanie was from Cincinnati, Ohio, and when she had first come to MooseLookit Island to do an internship onThe Weekly Islander, she had nearly despaired…which, in downeast lingo, also rhymed withayuh. How could she learn anything when she could only understand one word in every seven? And if she kept asking them to repeat themselves, how long would it be before they decided she was a congenital idiot (which on MooseLook was pronouncedijit, of course)?
She had been on the verge of quitting four days into a fourmonth University of Ohio postgrad program when Dave took her aside one afternoon and said, “Don’t you quit on it, Steffi, it’ll come to ya.” And it had. Almost overnight, it seemed, the accent had clarified. It was as if she’d had a bubble in her ear which had suddenly, miraculously popped. She thought she could live here the rest of her life and never talk like them, but understand them? Ayuh, that much she could do, deah.
“Fair was the word,” she agreed.
“One that hasn’t ever been in Jack Moody’s vocabulary, except in how it applies to the weather,” Vince said, and then, with no change of tone, “Put that roll down, David Bowie, ain’t you gettin fat, I swan, sooee, pigpigpig.”
“Last time I looked, we wa’ant married,” Dave said, and took another bite of his roll. “Can’t you tell her what’s on what passes for your mind without scoldin me?”
“Ain’t he pert?” Vince said. “No one ever taught him not to talk with his mouth full, either.” He hooked an arm over the back of his chair, and the breeze from the bright ocean blew his fine white hair back from his brow. “Steffi, Helen’s got three kids from twelve to six and a husband that run off and left her. She don’t want to leave the island, and she can make a go of it—just—waitressin at The Grey Gull because summers are a little fatter than the winters are lean. Do you follow that?”
“Yes, absolutely,” Stephanie said, and just then the lady in question approached.
“That hardly seems…” She trailed off, wondering if these two old fellows, who’d probably been putting out their paper before such a thing as the minimum wage even existed, would laugh at her if she finished.
“Fair might be the word you’re lookin for,” Dave said dryly, and picked up a roll. It was the last one in the basket.
Fair came outfayyuh, which more or less rhymed withayuh, the Yankee word which seemed to mean bothyes andis that so. Stephanie was from Cincinnati, Ohio, and when she had first come to MooseLookit Island to do an internship onThe Weekly Islander, she had nearly despaired…which, in downeast lingo, also rhymed withayuh. How could she learn anything when she could only understand one word in every seven? And if she kept asking them to repeat themselves, how long would it be before they decided she was a congenital idiot (which on MooseLook was pronouncedijit, of course)?
She had been on the verge of quitting four days into a fourmonth University of Ohio postgrad program when Dave took her aside one afternoon and said, “Don’t you quit on it, Steffi, it’ll come to ya.” And it had. Almost overnight, it seemed, the accent had clarified. It was as if she’d had a bubble in her ear which had suddenly, miraculously popped. She thought she could live here the rest of her life and never talk like them, but understand them? Ayuh, that much she could do, deah.
“Fair was the word,” she agreed.
“One that hasn’t ever been in Jack Moody’s vocabulary, except in how it applies to the weather,” Vince said, and then, with no change of tone, “Put that roll down, David Bowie, ain’t you gettin fat, I swan, sooee, pigpigpig.”
“Last time I looked, we wa’ant married,” Dave said, and took another bite of his roll. “Can’t you tell her what’s on what passes for your mind without scoldin me?”
“Ain’t he pert?” Vince said. “No one ever taught him not to talk with his mouth full, either.” He hooked an arm over the back of his chair, and the breeze from the bright ocean blew his fine white hair back from his brow. “Steffi, Helen’s got three kids from twelve to six and a husband that run off and left her. She don’t want to leave the island, and she can make a go of it—just—waitressin at The Grey Gull because summers are a little fatter than the winters are lean. Do you follow that?”
“Yes, absolutely,” Stephanie said, and just then the lady in question approached.