What? No! Not my tourist! Lola will have used him all up by the time I get out there.
I shove a couple of reams of processed cheese into the leaky box and hurry out to tell Lola that my tourist is not for human consumption.
Saint Professor catches me first. He’s come right up to the mold bar to talk to me. “I want ice-cream nuggets added to my order,” he says. “You didn’t tell me those were available.”
“They’re not.”
“I saw you eating them. I saw on your feed.”
He saw me eating them?? Since when is there a camera in the walk-in? Stupid Mr. One and his (apparently rational) fear of inventory pilfering.
“We have ice-cream nuggets,” I admit, “but I’m not allowed to serve them.”
“You’re hoarding them for yourself because they’ve been discontinued.”
“I’m not allowed to give them to you,” I tell Saint Professor, “unless you are a nonprofit organization that does not serve the economically disadvantaged.”
Saint Professor frowns in confusion. He slowly shakes his head. “I don’t think you’ve been properly trained at all.”
I break away from him and make for my tourist. Lola’s squinting at him from a distance, trying to center his face in her e-frame as if that’ll help pull up his nonexistent profile.
“My section,” I hiss at Lola.
I dart over to the tourist’s booth and say in my most alluring voice, “What is it you’re looking for?”
He looks up at me with an expression as open as the middle of the ocean.
“I’m waiting for a friend,” he says. Then, with his head tilted to one side: “This place was different last time I came here.”
I glance at the colorful banners slung everywhere. “Yeah, we’re doing a promo for FeedBin. I can get you Confused Teen Can’t Find His Car if you want.”
He swipes his shaggy hair out of his face, giving me a clear view of eyes the deep green color of murky lake water. “No, I mean this place used to be some kind of sandwich shop.” I can’t place his accent. He speaks slowly, like he’s having trouble getting all the consonants out. “With spicy peppers, I guess, that hurt your mouth if you ate a lot of them.”
“Oh. Yeah. Spicy peppers are like that, aren’t they?” I glance back at Lola, who’s watching our feed on her e-frame. I shoot her a look that says, What’s up with this guy? “So . . . Teen Doing His Confused Thing—that okay for you?”
“Yes.”
“You want a flavor gel?”
“Yes.”
I wait for him to tell me which kind. He looks at me blankly for a moment—are his eyes green or brown?—and then hurries to pull something out of his pocket. He hands me a silver coin stamped with what looks like a two-headed elephant.
“We don’t accept . . . Cambodian currency here,” I tell him.
“You could melt it down,” he offers.
I stare at him. He’s messing with me. I give him a knowing smirk. “I think I’ve got just the thing for you.”
I come back with what Lola and I have dubbed Banana Split The Check, a mountain of banana-gelled flavor foam topped with crumbled Oreos and graham cracker bits. She and I often make it and split the deduction from our paychecks, hence the name. Clever, right? I usually throw in some ice-cream nuggets too, but looks like that tradition has just gone out alongside privacy in the walk-in.
“I find it disquieting to eat faces,” I tell the tourist as I slide into the booth with the Banana Split. Mr. One doesn’t mind if we sit with the customers. He encourages it, especially if the customer is good-looking and doesn’t mind staging an argument or make-out session—it brings in more customers. I’m not planning on staging either, but Mr. One doesn’t need to know that.
The tourist digs in with all the self-consciousness of a five-year-old.
“Do you like it?” I ask.
“So far it’s not burning my mouth at all,” he reports.
“I’ll tell my manager to start printing that on the cups.”
He gulps down big puffs of glossy yellow foam.
“So what’s your name?” I ask, leaning in like I’m breathless to hear the answer.
He pauses for a suspicious length of time. “Michael.” He plows on through more Banana Split.
Hmmm. False name. No profile. I’m guessing he’s old money. Probably owns a couple of castles that his parents are trying to hide from gold-diggers like me.
I’ll try not to let that discourage me.
“I’m Brix.”
I glance at a tattered notebook on the table. A name is inked on the cover: Dylan.
“Who’s Dylan?” I ask, wondering if that’s this guy’s real name after all.
“My friend,” Michael says. He nods at the notebook. “I brought this to give back to him.”
“Oh, right, you’re supposed to meet someone. Is he as cute as you?” I give him the obligatory conspiratorial wink.
He actually considers how to answer that. “I’m more attractive.” Perfectly earnest.