I heard her long before I saw her.
A litany of loud, expressive ‘fuck’s sounded on a windy afternoon in downtown Albany. As I approached, I could make out the names of the intended recipients:
“Fuck Stella!”
“Fuck the trooper!!”
“Fuck Johnson!!!”
“Fuck the cunt!!!!”
She was screaming at another woman who tried to be keeping some semblance of peace around the shopping cart filled with worn bags, and not having much success of it. I walked quickly by, keeping my head down; Andy says they all talk to me because I make eye contact. I passed unnoticed and crossed the bottom of State Street, when the shouting reared up again.
“FUCK THEM ALL!! FUCK THEM ALL!!! FUCK THEM ALL!! FUCK THEM ALL!!! FUCK THEM ALL!!!”
By now the entire block was turned in her direction, which is where I was coming from, and I caught the eye of gentlemen who seemed as amused as me. He turned to a server who had just come out of a restaurant and asked if he knew her.
“Oh yeah, that’s Irene. They call her ‘Irate Irene’ because of… that. But other times she’s just a sweet and normal person.”
Same, Irene.
Same.
On my way back I had to pass her again. She was quiet and the other woman was gone. Unable to control myself, I caught her eye.
“I like your shirt,” she said, as if the previous storm had never happened.
“Thanks!” I said with a smile of relief.
