Educating Rita

By Susan M. Silver

One fall day about 15 years ago, I was thrifting some winter pieces at the 23rd Street Salvation Army.  Spotting a sign at the back, haphazardly hand-printed in red block letters, ALL SWEATERS $1, I made a beeline for the rack below it, positioned so low that garments were dusting the floor. As I sifted through the jungle of tops, some treasures, some trash, a sprite of a woman materialized next to me.  She appeared to be less than 5 feet, a vital older person with spiky silvering hair, her vibe still youthful.

Without looking at me, she asked, “How do you know whether something’s a sweater?”  She was evaluating a sad, claret-color knit that was barely clinging to life.

 “If the cashier says it’s a sweater,” I replied, “it’s a sweater.”

Something about the high-pitched voice, with a hint of seductive huskiness, seemed familiar. Tentatively, I asked, “Are you Rita?”

“No,” she said definitively.  And then, after a pause, she slowly swiveled her head, parrot-like, her right eye lasering me. Loud enough for the entire floor’s benefit, she intoned, syllable by syllable, “You mean Rita, as in MO-RE-NO?”  For the West Side Story legend, the Salvation Army had morphed into a stage.

I nodded.

‘Yes,” she confirmed. 

With that, Moreno bolted to the register, battered burgundy treasure in hand.

Even today, I can’t deny a certain sense of triumph in having educated Rita.