The Burgerjoint Babel

    Once upon a time, there was a Caucasian Lady who always went to her local burger joint for lunch. She was an older lady, who lived on the proper side of town. She just came in there to get her usual, a #2 with a Diet Coke. She would order and sit at her regular seat, a corner at the opposite end of the restaurant, where a lone tree stood looming outside the window, its leaves bent over just enough to shine a dab of light and warmth. Just as she was finishing her meal and about to take the last sip of coke, a Latino couple walked in, speaking fluent Spanish, joking around and having the time of their lives.

    Immediately, she was unfettered. She sat up in her chair, pressing her back flat against it and folded her arms, as if to readjust and shield herself. The cashier was Brown, too. He could speak perfect English, but in taking their order, he started rolling his tongue, just like they did, laughing and joking with those same "ya" sounds that they do. The Lady had no hope of understanding because she figured she was too old to learn the language and more importantly, to old to want to. As she was done with her meal, she began to leave, but hesitated. She should've given them a piece of her mind, but nowadays that kind of talk never ended well. She knew she would only end up on every news outlet for being rude. The next "Tattletail Sally," or whatever they called it. So she decided to let it go.

But before she left, the wife noticed her Edgar Allen Poe scarf.

"Excuse me," she asked, "Are you a writer?"

The Lady blinked, then smiled, "In a way. I'm the head Research Librarian at the local library."

The wife replied, "I teach Literature at the university up the street. Would you mind coming to my class and discussing the era of Romanticism to my students?"

The Lady's face lit up, "Oh yes, of course! Are your students having trouble distinguishing Romanticism from Modernism? I've heard that's a major problem."

The wife responded, "Why, yes! They just don't understand that Romanticism is the era of indulgence while Modernism is the era of divergence."

"Precisely," the Lady said, "There is a major severance between Hemingway's icebergs and Poe's unities of effect." They giggled to each other, then the Lady turned to the husband, who was sitting next to them, looking confused.

He finally said, "What kind of language are you two talking?"