Stewart’s, Queensbury, 11 a.m.

Gravel-voiced mom, to cashier: Yeah, I’m cleaning his room while he’s out of there. He’s in Boston.
Cashier: For college?

Mom: No, he’s just up there with Trev, partyin’ like a rock star.
(I miss some conversation while I pour a large coffee)

Mom: He has to have the nose surgery. The same ones hockey players get. He’s awful, mean, and ugly. Like his father.

(mom leaves)

Cashier, to me: The doctor told him he has the hands of a sixty year old man. Ever since eighth grade they were telling him that he was going to have arthritis, but that don’t mean nothin to him, even though he’s 18 now. That’s from all the football and wrestling.

Me: Well, was he any good?

Cashier: Oh, yeah, he was in the paper all the time. That’s $2.45, hon.

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