“She joined our company when she was 17,” gushed Collis. He had just assumed the post of supervising temporary manager, and his glowing Cape Palmas accent effused the proprietary pride slipping out with every word.
Miss Bith Evanson was a size five, but undoubtedly her tiny shoes were huge to fill. Her sweet oval face, famed in doe-brown straight page-boy hair just starting on grey, reminded me always (in order) of my darling departed sister Ruthie (constant minder/companion to me 60 years on), and Ruthie’s doppelganger Alice Bain, the guileless politics analyst on Channel Four.
Only Miss Bith always had to appear with standard prop: A slim Marlboro Black hanging from her lower lip. Wreathed in the concomitant smoke, she appeared a pale, stoic wraith. But oh, while puffing away on the ever-present ciggie, she could snag three glinty-eyed shoplifters from Wilson High, recite the price change on a double Reese’s or a small bag of Ricola cough drops and inform me if the last copy of the day’s New York Times was still in stock!
She was a sidewalk Florence Nightingale, as well. When I came by the pharm for a free flu shot, Bith tapped me on a shoulder and suggested, “The clinic LPN is on points, and you don’t look so swift. Let her swab you for novel Covid, okay?”
That was an offer I couldn’t refuse. Inevitably, I tested positive. Dutifully masked, I humped back to Foggy Bottom on the nearest 33 bus. Ten days later “blinking at rare sunlight,” I sought out the stalwart Miss Bith to slather her with profuse thanks and blessings. She demurred — “Thank God, not me.”
A month later, I pored over the candy rack, looking to alleviate a sugar jones. My new Nigerian friend popped up. “Where’s Bith?” I asked.
Somewhat dejectedly, he sighed. “Miss Bith has retired.”
“Cigarettes?” I offered.
“Fraid so. She’ll never quit.”
“God must be giving her a bonus round!”
