What the Airpot Saw Jon Gold
But the door buzzer. You go open the delivery door. The egg man. He looks like the walrus, but you keep your snide remarks to yourself.
He probably wouldn’t get the joke
“Sixty dozen eggs.” He announces as he
lets the hand truck drop harder than you would prefer.
“It’s supposed to be ninety.”
He looks at his
invoice. “Oh yeah, look at that.”
He crosses out 90 and scribbles in 60. A bell rings twice. Food order in the window. The barista hero will get it.
“Do you have
the other thirty dozen
“Sorry pal, you’re lookin’ at
what the warehouse give me
“Can you bring them tomorrow?”
“Call the office.”
You sign the invoice and remember the flood that is building in the dish pit. But the bell. It rings twice for a second time. The cook yells,
from the window at the pass. You peek out front. The
line of people to the door waiting to order their morning fix. The barista hero is heroing. She rushes to make drinks, take food orders, and fetch bran muffins, bagels, scones, coffee cake. You run to the pass to expedite food to your hungry, impatient customers. Kelly, the resident gadfly who bends every ear that strays into the vast personal space he has carved out of your cafe, grabs your arm as you try to rush past. He wants to tell you what camo guy
did the other day when you weren’t here.
As if you fucking care.
“I’m busy here
“Oh sure, I’ll catch you later.”
The hell of it is, he will. Food delivered to another table. Customer complains
, ‘this toast isn’t toasted enough.’
fire! Side of dark toast on the fly!” you bark at the window as you ring the bell.
“Dark toast on the fly,” comes the response from the kitchen.
You make some drinks to help clear the line at the register. You deliver the re-fired toast. The customer thanks you. Two more tickets expedited. Laden with plates, you try not to trip on the toddlers playing on the floor near the pass. The moms are too engrossed in their klatch to mind their children. It would be easy to get pissed off at them, but you know they need this break, this brief adult conversation time,
lest they kill the young’uns
or their husbands in a sleep-deprived, hormone-fueled, mom rage. You hurriedly wash a load of mugs because the barista hero is running low on clean ones. The leak
beckons but you can’t tend to it just yet. Then y
ou deliver more food and stop to bus a table on your way back.
You have an arm full of bus tub, but, “Excuse me.”