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The smell of a burnt muffin permeated the hip and trendy Jacksonville coffee house. I was sitting in a corner on a higher stool than the chairs at the tables scrolling through the job sites. There was nothing of interest and nothing I was qualified to do. I went to the state unemployment site, pulled up my information in English. They had cancelled my claim and I was entitled to nothing. So I started playing on the Internet hoping some suitable position might pop up later.

A coven of elderly Southern belles swarmed to the table next to me. Their hair and fashion was all elegantly worn, probably like it had been when the Old South was in full swing. And the chatter from them was a cacophony of nasal twang and self-righteous hick.

They were the granddaughters of the Confederacy, still flowering in the old age. They clung to the traditions passed down from generations, like gender-based social gatherings and dressing to go out and wearing oversized bonnets. And though they were all obviously longtime friends, they addressed each other as “Miss.”

“Oh, he had a colonoscopy on Friday,” the youngest one replied to another’s question.

“I’m thinking of changing doctors,” said a woman wearing a shawl.

“I wanted to play bridge on Friday,” the younger one said. “But Bobby said he couldn’t sit comfortably because of the colonoscopy.”

“Does it hurt that much?” asked another with hair dyed tulip red to match her lipstick.

“It sure looks like rain,” said the shorter one of indeterminate age.

“We need rain,” said the younger one. “Bobby said he couldn’t sit because of the colonoscopy.”

“Did you play any bridge then?” asked yet another woman.

“No, we didn’t even go,” said the younger one. “Bobby said he couldn’t sit because of the colonoscopy.”

“I hear colonoscopies can cause lingering pain,” said the shawled woman. “I’m thinking of changing doctors.”

“That’s a shame that you couldn’t play bridge,” said the shorter woman.

“I really wanted to play,” said the younger one. “But Bobby said he couldn’t sit because of the colonoscopy.”

“I’m not even looking at a clock,” said the oldest one, “but I bet it’s 9:30 right now.”

All the women checked their watches and giggled.

“You’re very good,” said the redhead. “It’s 9:26.”

“I’ve lived so long that I don’t need a watch,” said the oldest one.

It didn’t take long for the conversation to turn on friends who were not in attendance that morning. And the meaningless sweet-tea conversations turned to cottonmouth-venom as they ripped into an absent Judas.

The smell of the burnt muffin was long-gone. But the stench of stagnation had settled in for a long time.

Copyright ©2010 Keith Gery