Old Lady in Gas Station

As I'm standing in line ready to buy ice today a tiny little old white woman comes in to ask directions. She's the size of a raisen, in green stretch pants. The dye in her hair has faded to shade of pale orange never produced by nature. Her roots are long and white.

I missed hearing her destination, but the clerk, with a strong Jamacian accent gestured for her to turn right out of the parking lot.

"You go down here," he said pointing right, "and you keep going for three stop lights. Then at the third one you make a right. Go a block and a half and then make a left."

Gammy Raisen starres at him for a beat or two.

"So I go straight?"

"No." The clerk patiently describe her route again.

"Go a block and a half and then make a left," Gammy parrots. It's clear the part she repeated was the only part she remembered.

"I've lived here for 50 years, but everything's changing so much I don't recognize the place any more," Gammy says to everyone in general.

The customer who looks like Queen Latifah, leans into the clerk.
"I think you'd better write it for her," she says. The clerk turns to write the directions on a brown paper bag. It's noon and I fear Gammy isn't finding her way home before supper.