Women never want to tell you their age until they pass the age of 85, and then they tell you every five minutes. I had old Charlotte in my cab the other day, 95 years young. She still walks pretty good with a cane. Four feet nine inches tall; rat nest red wig crooked on her head. We got in the cab. She’s an old New York Jewish lady, too ornery to die.

“What’s going on, Charlotte?”



“Oh, I’m fine, I turned 95 last month.”

“Yes, I know. Did your son take you out to eat?”

“My son? He’s 65 years old, and STILL on that diet! He took me out to eat on my birthday, but he wouldn’t eat any cake.”

“Where did he take you?”

“What was it? Zara’s? Zaba’s? Zaria’s?”

“I don’t know. Was it an Indian place?”



“Indian? Do I look like an Indian to you?”

“No, sorry.”

“It was a good place; we had falafel. It was good falafel.”

“Where was it?”

“It was someplace off Grant.”

“Grant and Country Club?”


“Grant and Campbell?”

“No. It was after Campbell; what’s the next street after that?”

“Tucson Boulevard?”


“Country Club?”

“Yes! That’s it; it was Grant and Country Club!”

“Well, that sounds like a nice place.”

“It was. I had falafel and a coke. My son didn’t have a coke; he had water.”

“Because of his diet?”

“No. What’s that got to do with it? He just doesn’t like coke.”


This is an excerpt from Mather Schneider’s new memoir, 6 to 6. You can purchase the book from Terror House Press here.