It is as my wife and I stand in line at the Customer Service counter of the department store that I realize I can't understand a word that anyone is saying. It is about two days after Christmas and the other people in line are feeling a little delicate. I can tell that too much rich food and hangovers are the least of their problems. From their rolled eyes and snippy comments, I can tell that they have had a little too much of each other, too. I'd actually like to eavesdrop and find out what they are saying to each other, but everyone is too tired to care how they speak and their accents are too thick for me to understand. It is like being in some sort of really boring foreign movie. I look around for subtitles.
I've always had a problem with the local accent. I'm told that I have a fairly thick accent myself. Once in the Army, I was sent out to collect the trash from surrounding barracks, but when I asked for their garbage, the other privates would just look confused and shake their heads. Finally, one of my buddies from Nebraska asked me why I was asking everyone for cabbage. I tried to explain the difference between "cabbage" and "geh-bij", but he never worked out the finer points of a New England accent. So, you'd think that I would be right at home here in New Hampshire, but I grew up in Vermont and apparently, the two dialects are incompatible.
My wife has lived her whole life in this area, though and she is able to give me a whispered translation of some of the more mildly interesting conversations around us. This is so distracting that I hardly notice that we have made our way to the front of the line. My wife pulls out the clothing she wants to return and explains to the lady behind the counter that she doesn't have a receipt.
"That's awright," the lady tells my wife, "I just have to get the cod from my manager."
This is unexpected.
I'm certain that I must have misheard her, but apparently not, because a second later, the counter lady turns and calls to a coworker. "Hey Mildred, I need your cod for a return!"
I have a vivid mental image of the counter ladies beating my wife with a large fish, or maybe having her swear an oath on the head of the fish. I am deeply disappointed when Mildred walks to the counter and hands the other lady a card with a magnetic strip on the side.
"What would you have done if she really had handed you a cod?" I ask.
The counter lady thinks for a second, then shrugs and says, "Put a clothespin on my nose, I guess."
I consider this, then point out a flaw in her plan. "I don't think that would work. You'd need both hands to handle a giant gamefish flopping around on your counter."
She smiles. "Who said that it would be a live cod?" she asks, then turns and exchanges nods with Mildred, who seems to think that she's certainly told me where to get off.
I'm simply scornful of this idea. "What would be the point of a dead cod?" I ask. "That wouldn't make any sense at all!"
Our counter lady is taken a little aback by this. This is an angle she hadn't considered. She turns to Mildred and says, "The scary thing is, that makes sense." Mildred nods in stunned agreement. The counter lady turns back to us. "Either way, I'm glad I don't have to deal with a codfish," she says. "I don't get paid enough to deal with that."
I nod. That too makes sense. "You must get paid scale," I say.
To her credit, she laughs. Unfortunately, that just encourages me.
"The fish would have to come out of your net profits," I add.
Mildred laughs too, this time.
"And that would be a big haddock."
More laughter.
"I mean, what would be the porpoise?"
"He's funny," the counter lady tells my wife. "You are so lucky!"
My wife agrees with no expression at all in her voice that yes, she is the luckiest woman in the world and I fill her days and nights with laughter. Oh, how we laugh; she is lucky, lucky, lucky and could she have her store credit please?
The two ladies look at me, as if to ask for an explanation of why a fun guy like me is married to someone so grumpy.
"You'll have to excuse her," I say. "She's still a little shell-shocked from the holidays."
This sets the girls off again and they start to tell my wife again how funny I am, but the look on her face sets them back to work in a hurry. They give us the store credit we were looking for and wish us a Happy New Year.
On our way out, I overhear the girls talking:
"You know, he's nice, but she seemed like she was in a bad mood," the counter lady says to Mildred.
"I think she's okay," Mildred replies. "She's probably just not from around heah."
