So Far, So Good       kip williams

               "Uh huh. You recognize me, don't you?" asks the old lady, shaking an extended finger towards me, causing me to slide a little to the left on the bus stop bench, trying to put distance between us.

                 "I'm sorry?" 
  
               "Oh, now. I do not want you to worry about it," she said, waving her hand to clear the trepidation I didn't have.

               ""I get this all the time, hon. Does not bother me at all."

               "No?"

               "No, hon," she said, laying a spindly hand on my forearm. "Not in the least. I mean it. Used to it."

               I leaned out, staring down the street trying to bring the bus more quickly.

               "Silly little TV show so many years ago but everybody remembers. Still! My goodness, 28 years. Oh, they never forget. The fans, I mean. Some people insist on hearing me say it."

               She casts a sidelong glance, waiting politely for me to insist.

               "Well, I can see where you'd be tired of all that. People."

               "My dear," she says, "ten little words were my bread-and-butter. They put food on the table for me and my husband. Oh, I kept him alive after the show was canceled and he couldn't write. Now, I'm not saying we made the kind of money they do now. Oh, no. $5 million an episode. Whoever heard of such a thing?"

               Since I had heard of such a thing, no comment required.

               "Get your cotton picking hands out of that cookie jar."

               Her chin jutting out like a defiant prune, her voice shifting down a full octave, slipping into a syrupy sweet Southern drawl, followed by dramatic limbo. What might be called a pregnant pause though nobody, and sure as hell not me, was expecting anything. In fact, the more this lady talked the more I wanted nothing. At all. But she wasn't willing to give it to me.

               "Were you right?"

               "Ma'am?"

               She straightened, sitting taller on the bench, stiffening her neck and throwing her shoulders back.

               "Cece!"

               She reached out to tap my wrist.

               "From Shreveport's Finest. I am Cece," she said, awaiting a sign of recognition I couldn't give. "The rough around the edges waitress with a heart of gold. Cece? Well, I mean I played Cece -- 2 1/2 seasons. I am Rita Richmond! My husband produced it? We got canceled to make room for Comfortable Grace. Horrible show. Barely finished the season."

               "I'm not really... I mean we didn't watch a lot. Oh, wait a minute. Now that you mention it I may have seen that one."

               "In syndication," she said. "Where the network lawyers really robbed us. Not a cent. Even in foreign distribution. We lost a fortune in royalties."

               Followed by an awkward silence, sitting as still as a statue, staring at something I couldn't see. My chance to go back to what I had been doing quite well before she showed up; waiting for a bus.

               She sprang to life, clutching my wrist, animated like a gypsy fortune telling machine just fed a nickel.

               "But I do not want you to think I am bitter. I am not bitter, hon. Oh no. It was always about the work."

               Another pose, nodding her head and staring off into the distance.

               "The work... and," she turned toward me, smiling warmly, "being recognized and appreciated by wonderful, beautiful young fans. Like you."

               I heard the deep rumble of the bus engine as it rounded the corner, gliding to a stop and opening its doors. I leapt up the stairs, my metro pass extended. Pausing just long enough to see the short, egg-shaped driver nod, before racing down the aisle to a single open seat in the back. From there, I was able to watch Cece, or Mrs. Richmond, whichever she was, slowly climbing aboard.

               "Good morning, Karl."

               "Miss Siegelman," he said.

               Another nod. The doors closed, and we pulled away.