sex offer?

This lady's voice comes through the intercom around 2 a.m. She sounds British. She orders a tea. Yep, she is.

"Any sugar with that, lady?" I ask her.

She takes the hot tea from my hand, pauses, and looks me over. I feel like an object. "No, thanks, honey," she says. "I'm already too sweet."

I take her money, close the window and gather up her change. I can feel her stare. I hand her back a couple pennies and a quarter.

"But I'm not always sweet," she says.

The Sensible Skinhead walks behind me. The British chick, who looks to be about 40, notices him. "Oh, you aren't alone," she says. "I thought you might have been alone."

She drives off.

my truck's still running good

I complain about the Zen Buddha and, in turn, she is constantly complaining while we work together, but there is one thing that bonds us: country music.

There isn't a better genre for two complainers. Not only can we both empathize with the problems in the twangy tunes, but most of the songs have a basic, semi-optimistic theme that boils down to: Yeah, my baby left me, but at least my truck's still running good (and my tickers still ticking like the doctor says it should.)

I mean, sometimes the donuts turn out looking lousy. What do we do? Listen to some more country and put another lousy batch in the that old two-timing oven.

the muffin man

The Muffin Man. He exists. He's crazy about his blueberry muffins. He comes in every morning at 4:30 a.m and orders three blueberry muffins - nothing more, nothing less, never anything different.

And for a guy that orders something so cute, The Muffin Man actually tries to play it tough. He's always smoking a Marlboro Red 100 when he comes to the window and he doesn't mess around. Once, I gave him the wrong total just to screw with him - just cus.

"Three muffins," I said, "that will be $5.27."

"What? No way!" he yelled into the intercom.

"Sorry, sir, but with the economy in such a terrible state and the price of gas rising everyday, we had to raise our muffin prices."

"I have to pay two dollars extra on my muffins? Bullshit! I won't pay!" he yelled.

"Ok, I will let you slide this time. Go ahead and pull up."

"You better," he replied.

Well, the other night around 2 a.m. The Sensible Skinhead told me that we were out of blueberry muffin mix.

"Shit," I said. "Zen Buddha is already trying to kill me. Now, The Muffin Man is going to want to take me out."

After much persuading, I talked The Sensible Skinhead into telling The Muffin Man the bad muffin news. I figured that The Sensible Skinhead had already been to jail. If he could handle dropping the soap, then he could handle telling The Muffin Man that we were out of his favorite muffins.

The time came: 4:30 a.m. - on the dot.

"I'm really sorry, sir, but we are out of blueberry muffins," said TSS.

The Muffin Man made some sort of corny joke. He was in denial. TSS repeated the bad muffin news. Still, The Muffin Man tried to laugh it off like this wasn't really happening to him. TSS offered The Muffin Man some low fat blueberry muffins, or some blueberry bran.

"I can't believe this," said The Muffin Man. "No, I don't want anything. Nothing!" And with that, he peeled off into the foggy morning.

"I bet he is going to kill himself," I said to TSS.

"Sounds about right," said TSS.

I may need to change my schedule

I'm not sure I can work with Zen Buddha any more. Yes, I think that she is trying to kill me, but besides that I can't handle her boyfriend calling her every five minutes from the parking lot. Oh yeah, Fat Moe is still sleeping in Zen Buddha's car in the Tim Hortons' parking lot even though he apparently got a job working the late shift at Taco Bell.

"I am really aggravated and I don't know why," Zen Buddha said to me last night.

"Well, it might because your boyfriend calls every five minutes and you yell at him every time," I said, which seemed logical to me. "Maybe you shouldn't answer next time."

She discounted my answer immediately.

I understand that people have problems - I make weird, unnecessary noises when I speak and I can't seem to quit smoking - but answering the phone just to say, "No! Why do you keep asking me that? No! I said, 'No!' Bye!" every couple of minutes seems like an avoidable problem to me.

The other thing that scares me about working with Zen Buddha is that she is diabetic and she only eats breakfast sandwiches and drinks bottled water all night. I don't think that there is too much sugar in either one of those items, but I am only a doctor of donuts. The only thing that I prescribe are sprinkles and custard filling. Still, I don't think that the Zen Buddha is eating right for a diabetic and I don't want to be the one that has to inject her with insulin.

I just know that her family will sue the Tim Hortons pants - with no pockets - right off me if I don't inject it properly. I need to change my schedule, so that I'm not working with Zen Buddha. I need to change my schedule.

near death experience

The other night I was taking out the trash when, all of a sudden, this car squealed into the parking lot with its brights on. The car was really moving. I mean, like, zoom all over the place. I was standing there like a putz with a bag filled with old soup in my hands.

I realized that the car was coming straight for me. Was I going to die in a Tim Hortons' outfit? It seemed likely. The bright lights blinded me. I raised the bag of soup and prepared to fling it at the windshield. The car was still coming toward me. I let the bag fly; I missed big time; it bounced off the pavement - thank goodness I double bagged that bitch.

After the car avoided the old soup bag it pulled off some sort of Love Bug move into the drive-thru line. I grabbed out a cigarette and lit it. I walked over to pick up the bag of soup and thought about quiting.

I took my time going back into the store, but when I did I asked The Sensible Skinhead if got a good look at the last customer.

"Oh, yeah. That was The Zen Buddha and her boyfriend, Fat Moe. They wanted some hot chocolates."

"Assholes," I said under my breath.

"You have a problem with The Zen Buddha?" asked TSS.

"No, I guess not, but I think she is trying to kill me and I have to work with her Wednesday night."

pull your pants up

I've made an observation. What? Me? Yes; I've gone and done it. Bare with me, people (perhaps, person).

You know how bugs are magically drawn in by the bright lights of a bug zapper? Well, for some reason, jackasses are drawn in by that large B.E.L.T. sandwich poster in the drive-thru line. They can't resist it. They must order it. It's strange because the folks with normal intelligence don't order the B.E.L.T. - which is a bagel with B. (Bacon) E. (Egg) L. (Lettuce) and T (Tomato). There is nothing wrong with the B.E.L.T. It's a good sandwich, but for some reason the only people that order it have a second-grade education.

It always starts the same way, "Can I get one of those, um, um, ah," and right there, I know: The moron is going to order a B.E.L.T. They always pause, and stumble over their words after saying, "those," because they get confused. They aren't quite sure if B.E.L.T spells something, or if they should just say the letters. It really throws the nitwit customer off.

They start with the letters: "Um, on of those B, uh, E, um, oh" - eureka, they figured out the puzzle - "Belt! Yeah, I want a Belt!" Now, the jackass is overjoyed.

And every time I am tempted to say, "Why don't you just pull up our britches and get the hell out of here," but I don't; instead, I ask, "What favor bagel would you like that on?"

And because they are still so overjoyed that they figured out the puzzle of the B.E.L.T., they don't really comprehend my question. They say, "A Belt! I want Belt!"

Again, I am tempted to tell them, "Pull up our britches and make like a tree," but I don't; instead, I say, "I know you want a Belt!, but on what kind of bagel? Like maybe an everything bagel, or a salt one, perhaps cinnamon raisin."

"Oh, I get to pick?"

"Oh, yeah, here at Tim Hortons we have all kinds of options, baby."

"Just put it on a plain bagel, then."

tastes so good, wait, no, i mean bad

Every night it's my job to throw out the old baked goods. This puts me in a peculiar situation. If I decide to do my job I'm wasting food; and if I throw the baked goods into the trunk of my car I'm stealing on camera.

Would The Mundane Manger really fire me over some food that Tim Hortons considers trash? Does management ever look over the security camera's footage? Would my life be better if they just fired me?

I don't think that I have the answers to these questions just yet because it's difficult to tackle moral dilemmas on an empty stomach. Luckily, I have a couple dozen donuts, a few fruit explosion muffins, a bunch of bagels and a cheese croissant within arms length that will help me think it over.

all right, baby

We have this really cool, old black guy that comes in all the time during the night. He's always driving a different car and he likes to call me, "baby." It's always, "Can I get large coffee with one and one half cream and two sugars, baby." And I always say, "you got it, man," because I like the guy. When other people try to order in halves I get pissed, but not with this guy. He's too smooth for me to hate. (Oh, if you are wondering how I do the one and one half cream, I'll tell ya: We have a cream dispenser and I just hit the large cream button once, and then over to the small one, one time - easy enough.)

Last night he - let's call him Smooth Operator - came in around 10:30 p.m. and got his regular order. Smooth Operator was driving a nice Ford Mustang, but the window didn't roll down, so he had to open the door to make the exchange, but he was cool about it. Usually, other customers that have screwed-up windows explain to me some lame excuse like they have been meaning to get it fixed, or their brother messed up the window. Not Smooth Operator though, he just opened up the door with no explanation. Smooth Operator knows that I don't need any explanation, so he didn't waste my time with it - cool.

Well, around 4:30 a.m. I hear through my headset - "You made that last cup of coffee so good, baby, that I just need another one. One and one half cream with two sugars, baby," said Smooth Operator. "Just like last time."

Smooth Operator pulled up in some junky old brown car and as I was handing him his coffee he asked me, "Why doesn't the coffee taste as good when the girls' make it for me? How you do you make such a good cup?"

"Well, I'll tell ya," I said. "These girls that work here don't drink coffee, so they have no idea about freshness. I do, baby."

"I like it, baby," said Smooth Operator as he handed me a dollar tip.

style'n & profile'n

The Sensible Skinhead brought in this black leather coat with big fluffy fake fur coming out of neck and arm holes about a week ago. He uses it for when he goes into the freezer for the donuts, muffins, bagels, etc. The coat is off the chain in all the right ways. It kind of smells like a Black and Mild and screams, "You got a problem with me? Well, what are you going to do about it?"

I have a new found respect for The Sensible Skinhead. All the other bakers are walking into the freezer with some lame ass Tim Hortons' windbreaker; whereas, The Sensible Skinhead looks like Ali strutting into the ring when he goes into the freezer. I am actually thinking about learning how to bake if I can wear the coat.

the weather has turned

My normal greeting is, "Welcome to Tim Hortons' would you like to try an Ice Cap?" And that worked just fine, up until last night. Why? It was snowing. The wind was whipping around, knocking stuff all over the place. Mama kitty just stayed in her cardboard box behind the dumpster and didn't come out. It was cold and whenever I asked the customers if they wanted an Ice Cap they morphed into some sort of bitchy meteorologist.

"Come on, buddy, it's 30 degrees out here. An Ice Cap? With the wind chill it's got to be at least 10 degrees colder. At least. And you've got the nerve to ask me if I want an Ice Cap," said one old dude. "It's supposed to be colder tomorrow, you know."

"It was just a suggestion," I said. "Personally, I like the Ice Cap during all seasons, though."

"Fine," said the old dude, "but I still think that you suggest something hot when it's this cold."

"Ok, I know for certain that you don't want an Ice Cap. How about you tell me what you do want?" I said.

"Are you getting smart with me, young man," he said.

"No, never, sir."

labels

While I was going about my business last night I noticed that some of the items in the front of the store had been labeled. The microwave was labeled, "microwave." The hot water dispenser was labeled, "hot water." And both the cream and sugar dispensers were both respectively labeled, "sugar," and "cream."

Somehow, in the midst of my exhaustion and confusion and boredom, I came up with a plan to explain to The Sensible Skinhead how/why the rest of the items in the store needed to be labeled.

"Place where I sat down and did nothing for two hours, that should be labeled," I said. "Dirty dishes, those should be labeled. Poop stain in the bathroom. How are we going to know about that if it isn't labeled?"

"Maybe," said The Sensible Skinhead, "we should have been more focused on the labeling and less so on the cleaning, stocking and baking."

"I think you are right," I said. "Next time we shouldn't make the donuts, just label the spot where the fresh donuts should be. Mundane Manager would be proud."

"Right," said TSS. "And what about all the buttons on the register? Those should be labeled. Button. Button. Button. Button. Button."

"We really need some more sticky notes around here," I mentioned. "Medium Cup. Medium Cup. Medium Cup. Medium Cup. We have a ton of those and they should be labeled."

"Every cup has a lid, too, you know."

"And a sleeve," I said. "How have we made it this far without more stickies?"

"How do I even know that you are who you say you are?"

"Give me the sharpie," I announced. "I'll write, 'you' on your forehead and 'me' on mine."

hit my peak

While working the other night, I realized something: I have hit my peak of knowledge concerning Tim Hortons' worker skills. I will never, or have had any desire to, learn how to type in a meal combo on the register. It's too much work. I just give customers the senior discount when they order a combo because it is easier to type in. Does it work out price wise? I have no idea.

I don't think that I have or ever will give the bathrooms the proper scrub down that they desire. I was taught how to scrub the insides of toilets and urinals properly, but I figure that after enough flushes the nastiness will eventually go away without proper cleaning. Right? Ah, who cares?

Also, I don't ever want to bake, or learn how. I work the front, period. I have never baked on my own for muliple reasons. One: all of the donut, bagel, mufflin, etc. boxes are color coded. I'm colorblind. Two: Every time I walk into the freezer, which is usually set around 15 below zero, I feel like I am going to throw-up. All that super cold air rushes into my lungs and makes me feel ill. You might call me a pansy because I hate the super cold air in the freezer - whatever. Judge me. That's why I write this blog.