I can get you a flavor foam Girl With Pleasing Anatomy four hours before the evening shift.
Please be advised this is not a public drinking fountain but a flawed attempt at advertising soda with something resembling soda but completely unsafe for consumption.
I’m covered in my own skin!
That last one is a line from a feed that was popular last week, but maybe it’s too old to reference? Maybe he’s heard it so many times it’s not funny anymore? He’ll have to force a laugh and then wonder why he wastes his vacation hanging out on the plaza meeting desperate locals.
I get so flustered thinking about it that I finally just say, “The seating is located inside. Where the chairs are.” It comes off a little snarky. I’m not having the best of days.
Saint Professor, my Tuesday regular, is not happy that I abandoned him.
“I’ve been watching your feed on my e-frame here,” he says. An image of me through one of Flavor Foam’s cameras shows on his clunky, school-prescribed e-frame. “I saw you loitering on the patio. When I place my order, you fill it right away.”
I’m guessing he had a particularly bad day at school.
“And you don’t shove it onto the table like you just did,” he continues. “You approach from right here near my elbow and gracefully slide it in front of me. Like a seal gliding over butter.”
As Saint Professor leans over the table, I notice a little notebook in his shirt pocket on which he has scrawled T. S. Eliot. I almost grunt in frustration. If you’re going to lecture me on something, how about poetry? How about ultra-dense symbolism that I’d never be able to decode on my own?
“I come here every Tuesday,” Saint Professor says. “I know how these things are supposed to work.”
“I’m also here every Tuesday,” I say. “Also, pretty much every other day of the week.”
Saint Professor’s frustrated scowl turns into a smile of genuine warmth. “Don’t worry, you’ll catch on,” he says, and gives me an encouraging chuck on the shoulder.
I grit my teeth. I make no further delay in searching out those imperiled ice-cream nuggets.
And, goodie, there’s still some boxes left. I squat in the frosty air of the walk-in fridge and consider ways to prevent Brandon’s transfer to Debtors’ House, which I’ve heard serves only one large meal a day and encourages residents to scour the surrounding neighborhood for cans to recycle in order to make some “snack money.” Brandon’s skinny enough as it is. He thinks I don’t know he sneaks his bacon onto my plate every morning like I’m a little kid.
I could call Griffin and ask him to send us some of the cash he’s made apprenticing with a guy who does body art. Something I could split with his dad. I toy with my e-frame, considering the idea. Calling Griffin would mean hearing his voice, hoarse with salt air and sadness, and trying to keep my heart from breaking to pieces all over again: Remember the times on the roof, under the stars? They don’t have stars here, you can hardly see the streetlights for all the smog. It would mean trying (failing) not to get angry at him for leaving.
How can I ask him for money? I haven’t exactly been his biggest supporter lately.
Or I guess the better question is—how much does he really owe me?
“Brixney? You know what, Brixney?”
I turn to find Mr. One red-faced with disapproval, hands pressed together under his chin.
“Did you pay for those ice-cream nuggets?” He’s pleading with God that it be true.
“They’re melting. They’re making a mess of the walk-in.” I point at an ice-cream puddle leaking onto the refrigerated floor.
“And you’re taking initiative, and that’s great.” He hunches his shoulders. He’s practically bowing to me. “But eating food that belongs to the store and not to you? That’s a fast ticket to scraping the seat of your pants on the pavement outside the door. Know what I mean? I mean, when I fire you.”
“Okay, well, don’t fire me.” I go into a hot sweat. My stomach rejects the aesthetics of cold ice cream mixed with fiery panic. “I’m just eating ice-cream nuggets that we’re allowed to neither sell nor toss. Basically what I’m eating is trash.”
“Except that if you were eating trash?” He winces in an exaggerated way, as if pained on my behalf. “It’d be because you were on the streets without a job. Without this job, specifically.”
My face muscles spasm a little. I bend down on pretense of examining the leaking box. “I think I can staunch this. I’ll staunch this mess and then the nuggets can stay here in the box. Yeah, I’ll get on that.” I nod vigorously, partly to underscore my initiative and partly to shake out the muscle tics.
“Great.” Mr. One turns to go. “And I’ll tell Lola to take care of the tourist type who’s been sitting in your section for a full five minutes without being greeted.”