stomach problems

It felt like there was a mini roller coaster in my stomach and all of the mini people on the ride were throwing up, constantly. Due to the festivities going on in my stomach I was forced to use the bathroom quite a few times the other night when I worked. This posed a problem. To wear the headset? Or not to wear the headset? while on the toilet.

The first few times I decided not to because Zen Buddha could handle the orders if anyone pulled through, which she did, and everything seemed copacetic. Around 2 a.m. Zen Buddha had to start her bake, which meant that she had to go into the freezer to grab all the donuts. Well, our headsets don't work in the freezer.

The next time I had to go to the bathroom I wore my headset. I sat there praying to the donut gods that no one would pull up. Please. Please, don't order now. It didn't work. The donut gods somehow knew that I'm an atheist.

Beep. Someone was in the drive-thru line ready to order. I sat there, frozen.

"Thank you for choosing Tim Hortons. Can you hold on for a second?" I said, sounding like a middle school boy hitting puberty.

The customer agreed to wait. I frantically tried to contact Zen Buddha through my headset. No answer. She must be in the freezer. Damn it. I set my headset on the toilet paper dispenser. I tried to forget about the customer and focus on finishing up my business. It was difficult. I could still faintly hear, "Hello, hello, is anyone there? You guys are open, right?" Damn it. My life really sucks.

Finally, I was wiped and washed. I picked up my headset and to my relief the Zen Buddha was taking the dude's order. She finished and I thanked her for taking the order through my headset as I walked toward the front.

"What the shit?" she replied. "I can't do everything around here. You need to make this order because I have to get going on the bake. Damn."

I made the order. It was a cop that had ordered, so I didn't feel bad about making him wait.

six dozen

A tyrannous woman pulled up to the drive-thru at 5:10 a.m. explaining that she wanted donuts, a lot of them. Ok. How many?

"I want six dozen," she declared, straight-faced. I told her that she needed to come inside. This sort of transaction doesn't happen in the drive-thru. Plus, I needed to try and talk her down. We only make 80 donuts for the morning - if you did the math, twelve dozen donuts equates to 72 donuts, leaving us with eight donuts. Eight donuts at Tim Hortons! That's like Pres. Bush pronouncing all his words correctly. No. Doesn't work like that. That's just not reality.

So, this despotic woman lumbered into the lobby and barked "just mix up the donuts in each box." I made up the first box and she wasn't happy. From here on out she decided to choose the donuts one-by-one - great. As she was hand-picking donuts for the third box another customer walked in. It was a regular customer, who always orders a large coffee with light cream. I politely asked the domineering woman if the regular customer could go in front of her.

"No!" she yelled. "I haven't finished ordering."

The regular was forced to wait and eventually walked out. We started in on the forth dozen and I had to say something. I knew that she didn't care about totally wiping us out of donuts, so I had to hit her where it was going to hurt her.

"Wow, we are really running low on the chocolate and cream-filled donuts," I said. This startled her. While she was still in a state of shock, I told her: "We still have plenty of Timbits that are chocolate and cream-filled."

After some rigorous debate I talked her into four dozen donuts and 60 Timbits. It took me about 20 minutes to finally load up this monster order for the lordly lady. I looked over my shoulder and the Zen Buddha was freaking out because the drive-thru line was in a state of an emergency. I had to get this tyrant out of the store and on her way, but she wasn't going to leave without totally pissing me off.

She wanted bags for all the donut and Timbit boxes. The bags that we have are really hard to fit over the dozen boxes, so this took some time. Finally, it was time for her to pay. What does she hand me with a smirk on her face? A hundred. Now, I have to go over to the other register to make change. Secretly, I hoped that she'd trip and land on the donuts, smashing them all, so that I could tell her that she doesn't get a refund. I didn't see her trip, but it still could have happened.

After I got rid of her, I turned to see chaos. The Zen Buddha was running around trying to fill orders for the insane amount of people backed up in the drive-thru. What was worse? We were out of coffee. No coffee at Tim Hortons! That's like Pres. Bush telling the truth. No. Doesn't work like that. That's just not reality.

Blog #50, what!, what!

For this momentous blog - Blog #50, what!, what! party at Doctor Donut's tonight, bitches! - I would like to step outside of my experiences at Tim Hortons and write, an aside if you will, about some of the trials and tribulations that have come about due to the blog.

One of the difficulties about this blog is it costs a lot of money. I have to have at least ten brewskies in my system before I sit down to the keyboard to write. By the time I have finished the blog, I am usually pretty blasted and all my brewskies are gone, so I have to make another trip to the corner store for more brewskies, then my broskies come over and drink all my brewskies and I have to buy more brewskies because my broskies don't have jobs. It's a pretty fun cycle, but costly.

Also, I smoke at least a pack while writing, which isn't free either. Really, how can one write without smokes? Maybe all those chump authors on the Oprah book club don't smoke while they write, but they can all suck my exclamation point! - Blog #50, what!, what! I'm getting a keg tonight, bitches!

And the costs don't end with brewskies and smokes. When you're on the good ol' Internet and you're pretty hammered, your mind tends to wonder toward the dirtier things in life. I won't go into detail about some of the questionable Web sites that I have given my credit card number to - I may have a few younger readers out there - but I'll tell you what: $14.99 here, $29.99 there, $69.69 (deluxe membership) somewhere might not seem bad at first, but that is a monthly fee, people. Those bills really add up, especially when you're working at Tim Hortons and buying brewskies for your broskies all the time.

But don't you worry your little head about Doctor Donut. I'm in too good of a mood. I don't work tonight and I e-mailed one of the fine ladies on a Web site, which I have been a member with for six solid months, to be here for the Blog #50 par-tay tonight, what!, what! If you ain't got a car you best start walking, or riding your Huffy to Doctor Donut's now!

deleted scene from the strippers' visit

After the strippers, who came to visit The Sensible Skinhead, left the other night, The Sensible Skinhead asked me which one that I thought was the hottest.

"Why? Are you dating one of them?" I asked.

"I'm not dating any of them, but I'm kind of seeing two of them, haha, if you know what I mean?"

"Classy," I said. I silently hoped that STDs couldn't be passed through coffee, donuts, or muffins. My sixth-grade Phys. Ed told me otherwise, but my teachers also lied to me a lot like, for example, when they told me that Ernest Hemingway and Charles Dickens wrote interesting prose. "I guess they were all pretty hot."

"Well, do you remember the one with the big tits and the tight sweater? Yeah, you do," The Sensible Skinhead replied to his own question. "She showed me her new cell phone, flipped it open and there was a photo of her butt-ass-naked."

"Whatever happened to good ol' fashion Polaroids? It's all about the cell phone these days," I said.

"You should have stayed out here, man, all of those girls are really sweet, especially the one in the sweater. She's a real darling and super friendly," said The Sensible Skinhead, who seemed to take on the persona of a chivalrous knight defending his lady's honor. It was kind of noble, then he told me: "She would have let you grab her tits. They feel real, too."

the dismal return of Fat Moe

Zen Buddha's boyfriend, Fat Moe, was still sleeping overnight in her car, in the Tim Hortons' parking lot, when I worked with her the other night. What a surprise. Although, it appears that they are trying to keep Fat Moe's sleeping arrangement a little bit more discreet, which was at least a nice gesture, I guess.

Fat Moe didn't hang out in the lobby eating all the donuts and muffins this time; he wasn't using the bathroom every hour; and he wasn't speeding through the drive-through - without a driver's license - demanding to speak to Zen Buddha. Also, Zen Buddha wouldn't admit that he was sleeping in her car even though I could see him mulling around out there, which was at least a nice gesture, I guess.

If Fat Moe wasn't such a low-life, mooch, jealous boyfriend, wannabe player, piece of trash, I wouldn't have a problem with him rummaging around in the parking lot, but the problem is that he sucks at life. He was living with Zen Buddha, but her mom kicked him out because he sucks at life. He was living with some friends down state, but they kicked him out because he sucks at life and doesn't understand the concept of rent, especially paying it.

Maybe I shouldn't be complaining about some dude that was sleeping/making a bunch of phone calls in the parking lot. The problem was that he called Zen Buddha every 15 minutes; they argued about money; Zen Buddha got all stressed out; she started yelling a bunch of stuff like, "There better still be exactly nine dollars in the car when I get back." All of this Jerry Springer action made it very tricky for the Zen Buddha to get her work done; therefore, I was forced to get all my shit done real fast, so I could pick up the slack for her - not cool - and where inlays the problem? Fat Moe.

the ride home

After dealing with assholes, wearing a hairnet, and cleaning toilets for an eight-hour midnight shift I'm twitchy. My nervous are shot and I'm tired of all the beige. I usually don't say goodbye to any of my co-workers. I chuck my hairnet on the parking lot pavement and I probably look like a heroin-addict gone cold turkey, but I'll tell you what, the ride home is euphoric.

I turn on CBC radio 2, which has a classical program on. Classical at 6:15 a.m. is exactly what the Doctor Donut ordered (yeah, third person, what are you going to do about it?). I need it, rather I yearn for classical after enduring the lousy pop hits - "today's greatest hits" my ass - that The Sensible Skinhead, or Zen Buddha rock out to all night while baking.

There is a usually a slight fog, but you can still see the stars, both dippers, when I drive home. All of the commuters around me are in a mad rush to get to work or to school, but I have no where to be except home to sleep, so I drive real slow, slow enough to annoy the other drivers, and I let all the assholes pass me by.

wake up earlier, people!

We always get these people, rather jerks, that come into Tim Hortons five minutes before they have to be to work and, of course, they have these complicated orders that they say really fast, then they get all pissed-off if we don't take and make their order at the speed of light. Personally, I could care less. It's their problem. I don't get paid more if they are on-time. Plus, my soul is black and I have plenty of my own problems - like, I don't have health insurance and my ingrown toenail still kills.

Anyway (since this isn't some sort of Emo blog), I had this lady, who was obviously late for work, pull up the other night and order. She wanted a small lemon tea with four equals, two milks and the tea bag taken out (kind of picky, but not too bad). Then she ordered her sandwich so fast that she could have been making a quick analysis on the elongated sentence structure of William Faulkner - I had no idea. After some pointed questions I figured out that she wanted ham and Swiss on a bagel. Still, I didn't know what kind of bagel. When I asked her she grew increasingly irate.

"Plain. Plain bagel, just hurry up," she barked.

Ok, I got that, Little Miss Thang, but then I heard The Sensible Skinhead in my headset asking me what type of condiment Little Miss Thang desired. I knew that she was probably going to spontaneously combust in her car, but I asked anyway.

"Plain," she barked.

Plain condiment? Now, I couldn't just take that answer. We don't have a plain condiment. Perhaps, I could have inferred that she didn't want any condiment, but I don't get paid to infer. I just do as I'm told and I wasn't sure what I was being told to do, so I asked again.

"Um, we don't carry a plain condiment. Do you want some Tim sauce? Perhaps some honey, or yellow mustard?"

"No!" she yelled. "Just plain, no condiments."

"Okie dokie, pull up for your total."

$8,000 tits

The Sensible Skinhead baked and I worked the front. The guy really likes to show off. People that have more things to show don't have much to tell.

He had this mammoth tattoo on the inside of his forearm. The "meaning" behind why people get tattoos always bores me, so I rarely ask, but the black ink looked really new and dark on the inside of his forearm, so I knew that he was waiting for me to ask. It was of a naughty nurse, a map of a U.S. state and an hour glass. What a dope.

We were working for an hour and he started stocking the stuff I am supposed to stock and washing the dishes I am supposed to wash. I began to like The Sensible Skinhead. We kicked off a conversation about work related hogwash. I told him about the hoes that wouldn't pay, or leave. As I'm telling the tale I notice that he had a number in the middle of his state map tattoo - got to be his prison number.

"What the fuck is that number?"

"Um, it's kind of personal," he said, then started to get back to work, acting busy.

"Then why did you put it on your arm?" (reasonable question)

"It's a reminder of where I have been and what I've done."

"That's kind of lame," I said (I couldn't help it). "What did you do then?"

"I'd rather not talk about it, but that naughty nurse is pretty hot, huh?"

"Fine, whatever," I said and walked toward the front.

I spotted a group of girls knocking on the locked door. They said that they were there to see The Sensible Skinhead. I let him know through my headset and he told me: "They are all strippers. Check out the one with the big tits she just got a $8,000 boob-job."

"Shit," I said. "I am going out back for a cigarette. You can deal with this." I can't deal with show-offs, big tits, or not.

i'm trying to quit smoking, but...

... The Buddha Baker shares these fantastic stories during smoke breaks. I have been trying to quit smoking, but if I give up on smoking then I'm giving up on her stories. I just can't do it. The stories are too good and The Buddha Baker is actually somewhat reserved, so I have to really work to get a good story out of her.

The Buddha Baker has lived with prostitutes in Arizona; She smoked a joint most everyday on her way to middle school, and when she got to school the teachers paddled the students; She has run out of money in about ten states; She has a felony on her record - I'm still trying to figure out what for (I don't want to look it up on the Internet like a creep. I want her to tell me.)

The Buddha Baker smokes Newports 100s. Me, either Camel or Parliament lights. A few times I went to work without cigarettes. When The Buddha Baker asks me if I want to take a smoke break I can't resist. I want to hear about how one of the prostitutes made a dude take out all his money from an ATM and give it to her. In cases like this I bum a Newport 100, which is murder. Those cigs are rough.

I'm almost at the point where I only smoke with The Buddha Baker, which is nice. I always get a twisted tale and a chance to blow off some steam from customers.

The other day we were taking a smoke break and The Buddha Baker told me about her boyfriend from high school. He has all these track records, which I didn't think was particularly interesting. I asked what he was up to these days.

"The last heard he was still in jail," said The Buddha Baker. "He accidentally killed his best friend awhile back."

"Accidentally?"

"Yeah, I guess he thought the safety was still on, but the judge thought otherwise."

"Oh," I said and took a long drag.

they fought the store (and the store won)

We ran out of lettuce at 3:30 a.m. last night. I love telling customers that we're out of a product. Customers often say, "skip it," and pull away in a huff without ordering anything, which means less work and more time to read Bukowski in the lobby.

At 4:45 a.m. these stuck-up hoes pull up. They want egg salad in a wheat wrap. I gladly inform them that there is no lettuce. They decide against the wrap due to the lettuce limitation. I start to think things are going my way. Alas, they want to know every type of bagel we serve. I go through the list of 15 different flavors. They want me to go through the list again. My hands clinch up; my knuckles turn white.

One of the hoes asks me: "What the hell is an everything bagel?" I almost ask her if she gets out much? instead, I kept my cool and enter into the game.

"It's like a combination of the all the other bagels that I listed twice, not counting the fruity ones. It's like totally awesome, my absolute fav," I reply.

Finally, the hoes decide on two bagels ("you better make sure they're untoasted") with cream cheese ("vegetable cream cheese, or did you run out of that too?") and a French vanilla cappuccino("no, not the frozen kind, it's too cold out here for that"). I give them their total - $4.79.

"No," says one of the hoes. "Why don't we get a discount? You didn't have what we wanted." Now, if they would have been civil, not insisted on the discount I would have given it to them, no problem. I give super deals all the time, but not with these hoes.

They refuse to pull up until I give them a deal. I hold, but The Buddha Baker overhears the argument through her headset and tells them that they will get a discount. The Buddha Baker wants to get rid of them. The Buddha Baker is nicer than me. I want to show these hoes up, but I respect The Buddha Baker.

The hoes, five-layers of make-up, and some scantly-clad outfits finally pull up. The Buddha Baker only gives them 10% off, and this just won't do. The hoes want our names, the phone number of our manager and the number of the corporate office. We give them the info with a smile. They want to know how much this job means to us. Nothing, so let's move this game into overtime. Apparently, there is a phone number on the outside of the drive-through window. One of the hoes calls the number with her rhinestoned cellphone and tells us that she is calling corporate. What corporate office is open at 4:45 a.m.? Why didn't she call the corporate number we gave her?

It's at a stand-still. They won't give us the money. We refuse to hand over the food until they pay. Another car pulls up. A dude orders. I walk the dude's order out to him. As I'm walking past the hoes, I noticed the phone number they were calling is labeled: Allergy Information. Score, overtime goal for Tim Horton.

I tell the dude, who is still stuck behind the hoes: "Um, these stupid girls in front of you aren't moving because we didn't give them a big enough discount."

"They better move because I have to get to work," says the dude while pulling out his identification card - state corrections. "I work for the state police. Do you want me to have these girls removed?" I really start to get into the conflict. Adrenaline kicks in for the first time since I have been working at Tim Hortons.

"I think it has come to that," I say smiling even bigger. The dude looks around for for his cellphone in his car. The hoes have no license plate. The dude finds his cellphone, but he's still dialing when the hoes peel-out into the darkness.

The Buddha Baker also threatened to call the 5-0 and that's why the hoes high-tailed it out of there when they did. I'm let down, in a way, because the hoes end the conflict, so I get back to Bukowski while eating and drinking the hoes' order.

"you owe me"

I worked last night - bloody ingrown toenail and all. Was my Mundane Manager glad that I was fighting through the ferociously irritating pain? It difficult to tell from her note: "Doctor Donut, Could you please work Friday? You owe me? (smiley face) - Mundane Manager."

I didn't think it was possible, but my Mundane Manager caused me more irritation with a simple note with loopy letters than my obscenely repugnant toenail. She may deserve some sort of award for this feat: Miss Damsel of Distress 2007? Satan's Little Helper this side of the Mississippi? or perhaps, just a free pass directly to Hell?

The sassy little note didn't irritate me the most when I first saw it. The note progressively pained me as the night went along just like my oozing toenail. The torture of my ingrown toenail was actually a catalyst for the torment of the note.

Both ailments hit their peak of annoyance around 5 a.m. when the wire connecting my headset to the battery pack got caught on the pop dispenser, I lost my balance, nearly fell down and in the process stubbed my toe - yeah, the one. It was strange because when I was jumping up and down holding my toe in agony I didn't yell out, "Stupid toe;" instead, I yelled out, "Stupid god-damn manager and her shitty note." That sealed the deal for me that the two ailments affected each other, kind of, like how O.J affected Nicole.

no pockets

No Pockets! There are no pockets in the Tim Hortons' uniform. What does this mean? Tim Hortons doesn't trust its workers in the least bit and is implying that we are lazy. I have been meaning to write about this for awhile because it is a travesty, a sham, and a mockery - a Traveshamockery!

No pockets on our corny khaki pants. No breast pockets on our fluffy shirts. I am surprised they let us wear socks. I am always thinking about stuffing a few twenties, a Boston Creme and a couple Timbits in my socks. They would never know. Oh wait, there are cameras scrannin every inch of the store, so I might get caught.

You may be thinking that there is no reason for the Tim Hortons' employee to have pockets. What's the use? Well, I'll tell you: pockets make me feel like a normal human-being. Every since I started wearing pants they have always had pockets. Even my baby clothes had pockets. I've gotten used to having pockets. I like them. I don't always keep stuff in my pockets, but I like the option. I don't always have my hands in my pockets, but I like the option.

Every time I reach down to put my hands in my pockets and there are no pockets I get a little bit pissed, and sometimes my outrage builds up and I take it out on the customers. I don't mean to take my rage out on the customers, but it just happens because I miss my pockets. If Tim Hortons didn't trust me so much then they shouldn't have hired me. They shouldn't hire anyone that they can't trust to have pockets.

life has been good (kind of)

I haven't worked in about a week because all those late-night, 8-hour shifts have taken a toll on my pencily body. I have an ingrown toenail - big toe, right side - which makes it very painful to walk, difficult to stock and almost impossible to mop.

The best part about having an ingrown toenail is that no one wants to know any details about it. People think that it is gross. They are right. It is.

The assortment of Tim Hortons' managers that have called me (every day) to work renege on their request after I tell them about my ingrown toenail. My ingrown toenail is the equivalent of a lady getting out of work due to "feminine issues."

Today, one of the managers called me up: "Um, Doctor Donut, I heard that you were sick, or hurt, or something, but I was hoping that you could come in and cover a shift tonight. Can you do that for me?"

"Actually, what I have is an ingrown toenail. I'm looking at it right now and ..."

"Whoa, whoa," interrupted the manager. "We will find someone else to come in tonight. Take care of yourself and don't worry about."

Click.

lousy jocks

A group of high school wrestlers from Springfield hung out in the lobby until we closed the doors the other night. Wrestling? What a silly and homo-erotic sport.

So, all these jocks had their letter jackets on. They just sat around pounded their muscular fists into the tables laughing about fart jokes. Donut crumbs and pop spilled every which way.

It was surprising to me that these meat-heads didn't have any ditsy chicks with them because when I was in high school all the wrestlers constantly had the flaky chicks wrapped around their pulsating veins. Did all that male-on-male crouch grabbing and butt slapping associated with wrestling finally get to these guys?

We were really slow when these jocks were treating the Tim Hortons' lobby as their own personal McDonald's play pen, so I was tempted, tempted to tell these meat-heads to, "Make like a tree and get the hell out of here," but I chickened out multiple times. I just couldn't do it. All those terrible high school memories of the wrestlers treating me like crap flooded back into my brain. I was paralyzed.

When they finally got up to leave one of the wrestlers asked me to refill his water. I told him I was busy and proceeded to stock one of the napkin dispensers. The Buddha Baker noticed that I wasn't helping the dude and went ahead and refilled his water.

"Why didn't you help him?" asked the Buddha Baker.

"I don't know. I didn't like those dudes," I said.

"I got-ya," said the Buddha Baker. "Me either."

it only takes one

Everything was a little too perfect last night. I was working with the incomparable Buddha Baker. She was explaining broadcast Schizophrenia to me - victims hear voices through the radio, or TV. I was on-schedule with all the cleaning and re-stocking. We had just enough customers. Mama-kitty paid us a visit. We feed her some chicken breasts.

Then came that customer. The customer that had a bad mother and learned no manners.

That customer was a wiry chick that pulled in around 3 a.m. She ordered a medium French vanilla cappuccino and a bagel BELT (bacon, egg, lettuce and tomato) minus the egg.

I repeated her order back to her before I even started to make it because she had a bitchy attitude to start with. I knew she was looking for a problem. I tried to avoid it. I tried.

She pulled up in her tank of an SUV. She gave me a ten-dollar bill and without looking at me, or speaking a word she pulled away into the night. Three minutes later she was back: flying through the drive-through and honking her horn. Why do people honk their horns in the drive-through? Because their momma didn't raise them right.

"This cappuccino isn't even lukewarm. Where's the cheese on my sandwich?" she barked.

"You didn't order any cheese and I can get you another cappuccino, or heat the one you have up if you want," I said.

"I don't have time for this," she barked, then handed me back her order and the change I had given her from her ten. "I want a refund."

Now, maybe if she was civil I would have given back her ten, but that wasn't the case; instead, I handed her back the change that she tried to return to me. I closed the window. I could feel her devil eyes on me. I did my best imitation of "Magic" Johnson's classic hook-shot with the bag containing her bagel BELT - nothing but net. I raised my hands in victory.

She got her money back, but not her ten-dollar bill. Me, I had hit a three-pointer at the buzzer to win the game.

springfield revisited

The Springfield store has an extra employee come in at 5 a.m. This was crucial because the last time I worked there it was with Dwayne The Brain McClain, who couldn't tie his shoe in a slight breeze. The guy was a real louse.

Bryson was the name of the dude that came in at 5 a.m. He was hot-shot employee with the handbook tattooed on his ass. It looked like his uniform has just come from the dry-cleaners and he was proud to be wearing it. He had washboard posture.

I took the orders and handled the money. I let Bryson handle the rest. The guy was doing origami with the parchment paper and could fill a double-double before I could I say, "How 'bout an ice cap, eh?" I found myself just watching him in action. It was like watching a bee build the hive. He had some serious Tim Hortons' skills. I hope I never have them.

We got really busy and Dwayne The Brain McClain was off somewhere sucking his thumb, so I had to start filling some of the orders. I was making an ice cap. I put too much goop in. I started mixing the thing and it over-flowed. Bryson saw what I was doing and nearly had a heart-attack.

"What are you doing?" he said in a snide whisper. "You never put that much in."

I wiped down the cup and handed it to the lady who ordered it. With a smile on her face she told me, "You can make my ice cap anytime, hunny."

monkey do

During our morning rush a lady laid in on her horn. She had four cars in front of her in the drive-through. This caused the friendly songbirds to shit on the store and fly away. Mama-kitty hid in a cardboard box pawing at her ears. Even the raccoon left to find scraps at McDonalds.

I couldn't let one crazy customer drive away the everyday wildlife. I decided to move as slow as possible. I had to listen to a few more honks, but she wanted me to hustle and I wanted to do annoy her as much as she was pissing me off. I figured I could endure one morning of honks to keep the birds coming back with their sweet tunes.

When the lady finally got up to the window I kicked the passive aggressiveness into high gear. She held out her money. I held out a single finger.

"Hold on a sec, I haven't finished ringing you up yet," I said and shut the window.

I took her money. Closed the window again and individually dropped each coin, from a considerable height, into the register. Since she paid me in coins for her coffee, the coin dropping took some time.

When I reemerged with her coffee she seemed confused. Somehow, she mistook her coffee for a banana because she started reaching for it like a monkey. I made sure to tell her to, "have a perfect day and drive careful out there because there's some real crazies out there on the road," before I handed over the coffee.