(Dammit. I missed posting yesterday. Do you suppose the postaday2011 police are gonna be knocking on my door soon?)
I dedicate today’s post to you, Mr. I’m In A Big Fat Hurry.
Every day you drive up my ass because I’m not going ten over the limit. You change lanes multiple times in the course of two blocks to pass as many cars as possible before cutting across three lanes of traffic at the last second to get onto the freeway on-ramp. You use the HOV lane on the on-ramp because you’re too busy/late/important to wait in the metered lane with the rest of us. You merge onto the freeway across the divider rather than stay in the prescribed lane.
You to arrive in the stand-still traffic exactly two cars ahead of me.
I’m barely awake enough as it is and your reckless driving forces me to pay even closer attention to what you’re doing to avoid any unpleasant collisions. But at least you make me laugh.
After performing your intricate ballet of change lanes/accelerate/slam-on-the-brakes/change lanes, you finally arrive at my store. Where there’s yet another annoying line of slowpokes conspiring to ruin your day. I see your angst as you resist the urge to cut ahead in line. I see you fume as the customer ahead of you asks a few questions before ordering. When it’s your turn you blurt out your order, throw your money on the counter and turn to discover… that very same line of people now waiting to pick up their drinks.
Your head almost explodes.
I get through the customers in line as quickly as I can, while ensuring that orders are taken and communicated to the baristas accurately. Your attitude does nothing to speed up this process. It does, however, make me laugh. Your fellow customers are laughing at you, too.
As the people ahead of you pick up their drinks you continue to fume. You check your watch. You frown. You sigh heavily. You check your watch. You look to the heavens as if to say “Why me?” Your face turns red with anger and you mutter under your breath as people edge away from you and chuckle to themselves at your childish outrage. As you get closer to the pick up area, you lean over the bar and demand that I hurry up.
You: “I don’t have time for this. Can I just get my drink now? Please?”
At least you said “please”. I’ll give you that much.
Me: “Yours was the Non-Standard Drink That Requires Extra Steps, right? That’s coming up after the three people who are ahead of you, sir.” I smile warmly and sincerely to let you know I care that you’re late for work while I continue making drinks for the nice people ahead of you.
You: *sigh* “I don’t have time for this!” You step back in line, muttering something about kicking a puppy.
You are up next and your anger is a visible cloud of red around your body. You glare at me as I make your drink exactly as you ordered it. I know what you’re about to say.
You: “I really don’t have time for this. I have to go. Now. Just give it to me like that.”
Me: “It’s just about done, sir. About 20 seconds to go, really.”
You: “I don’t have 20 seconds. Just let me take it like that. I don’t have time for this!”
Me: “Are you sure? It’s not going to be what you ordered. Won’t be what you want.”
You: “Just give it to me. I. Don’t. Have. Time. For. This!”
I put the drink on the bar for you. You sweep it up and turn to go. In your rage, you spill it.
Me: “I’ll just remake that for you. Be just about a minute.”
The other customers can no longer contain their laughter.
Your head explodes.
Just one last thing: If you’re so late that you’re forced to drive like an asshole to get to my store to act like an asshole, allow me to offer this little piece of advice: