Pat’s Great Idea
Amanda Killham Davis
“Nonfat, iced chai, extra sweet, no lid,” I called to my partner Ed from the front register. “Enjoy, Melissa. Have a great day.” I hope you spill it on your milk chocolate toreador pants and then trip over your sexy, spiked sandals and cut open your foot on the concha shell skinny straps dividing your perfect pink grapefruit pedicured toes. I smile my best barista smile and wonder: How does she drive in those shoes?
My next potential tip steps forward. “The regular, Cindy?” I inquire solicitously. I’m in a contest to remember the most customer names and regular orders; I plan to win.
“No Thanks, Pat. Today I’ll try a double expresso with soy foam.” Learn to pronounce dim bulb. And get some taste, too while you’re at it. I sneak a look in the case. “Our carrot cake is excellent. Would you like to try some with your espresso?” I place a large delectable slice, its white cream cheese frosting mounding in lovely waves, on a convenient used plate and pass it over the counter. “Oh, I’m sorry. You don’t want it; my mistake. No problem.” What a shame; Guess I’ll have to eat it.
I survey the thinning commuter crowd in the shop as I gobble the cake before Ed notices. He is so industrious: always scrubbing, straightening, hauling out the garbage. There he goes now. “Hey Ed. Have smoke while you’re out. I’ll hold the fort.”
“Thanks Pat. You’re a doll.” He struggles to dump the spent grounds into the special metal can we use just for them. Coffee grounds are so heavy, wet and steamy that regular bags can’t handle the weight. Too bad Corporate didn’t take my suggestion about having our stupid tree-hugging patrons haul them off for us, free. Put them in a fancy bag and call them compost. Jerks. I place my used plate on the counter under the pastry case. Hardly any crumbs. No point in wasting time or energy to take it back to the dish room.
My hand grazes the tip jar on my way past; I palm the $10 bill lying on top. Glancing quickly around to be sure Ed is not coming back in, I pocket it. If he returns unexpectedly, I always say I’m turning in the $1’s we got yesterday. What a simp.
I spend the next few minutes fantasizing about the hot car I’ll buy with the prize money from the customer service contest. Corporate is so into contests and team building activities. I enter them all. This money will be mine. I’m quite confident.
A sweet Silver BMW pulls in. Man, it gets me hot. The alloy wheels and gold kit really make my head spin. Couldn’t be more perfect if I ordered it myself. The driver gets out. His Black linen logo shirt screams corporate dick. Not too bad looking himself. Great hair. He turns to use the keyless entry lock as he approaches our door. Great butt, too. Too bad I prefer women; I might let him do me in his car, though. He’d never know he wasn’t the reason for my enthusiasm.
“Are you Pat?” he begins. My heart leaps. This is it. I knew my customer service skills were superior. Hot damn!
“I’m here from Corporate to recognize your 2nd place in the national customer service contest. Congratulations!” He puts out his great hairy male paw. I gape; I slap it away. He opens his mouth to continue. “AndÉÉ”
“Whad’ya mean: 2nd place? I’m the best you’ve got in your stupid organization.” Spit forms at the corners of my mouth; my heart pounds; conversation stops. Stumbling over my black Nikes, I grab my bag from behind the counter, elbow around Ed standing open-mouthed, skirt the startled customers in line and exit with a satisfying spit aimed at the Silver BMW wheels. Screw’em; I’m better than 2nd.
A placard in the windshield catches my eye: Grounds for your Garden. I glance down at the license plate: PATSIDA.
Shit.
