[I am asked to meet Ms Bubb in the smoking area of a government building outside of DC. As I approach, she is seated at a picnic table, looking over paperwork. Barbara Bubb looks to be in her 70s. She has pure white hair over a tired and irritated face, a little too much makeup as she throws me a longsuffering look. She’s wearing two strings of pearls, an old fashioned black pantsuit, and a frown. When she speaks, her voice has the gravel of a decades-long smoking habit.]
Bubb] You the girl I’m supposed to talk to, honey?
Meghan] That’s right, ma’am. You can call me Meghan.
B] Mh-hm. You got me for twenty minutes.
M] I thought it was thirty.
B] I’m counting my smoke break. You mind if I smoke?
M] I’d rather you didn’t.
[She nonetheless pulls a pack of cigarettes from her purse and lights one.]
