Post by goldenmyst on Apr 14, 2019 18:58:47 GMT -6
Cashier Girl
The city streets are lonely and antiseptic. I sit in a fast food joint, as the only patron amongst the menagerie of chairs and tables. My gaze through the glass windows takes in the cars outside with the shine of their headlights through the shadowy world. Their occupants seek a home in some shape or form.
The cashier girl knows my usual and there is some comfort in familiarity. She multitasks as I gaze upon her busy body. Her jacket is embossed all over with words such as cute, beautiful, sexy, genuine, compassionate, sincere, honesty, and integrity. There is so much more implied behind her pretty smile than sex appeal.
There are cool whispers of fall outside. Yet the season is bleak with the strangeness of urban desolation. My golden age has passed me by without fanfare or trumpets. My heart beats like a metronome.
The cashier behind the counter calls me honey. We share genuine smiles and my blues are lifted in a moment of sincerity. She says, “Do you want your usual? Or should I spice it up with something new and exotic?”
My grin is embarrassed like I don’t know whether to get daring or keep it modest. “What I want isn’t on the menu.”
She throws back her head and laughs like she just heard the funniest joke ever at the comedy club.
I get a shy horizontal lip formation. “Of course I meant waffles with hot sauce.”
She says, “Oh no, you meant me. The Tabasco you want is me. But let’s stick to the menu for now.”
“Well then, waffles with pancake syrup.”
“That is as good a recovery as I’ve ever seen in football. Hey, I got a break in just about five minutes. Let’s jabber over coffee. You can have your waffles as a diversion for when you run out of words.”
My tongue waggles like an off-kilter clown. “This waffle is too much for me. Let’s share it, dearie.”
“The employees get free food here. And I’ve my fill. So you don’t get off the hook. You must talk to me.”
“If you were a waitress, what kind of restaurant would you work at?”
She says, “I’d be a barista girl at a coffee shop. But my countrified lingo wouldn’t fly there. Where would you hang your hat if you had a choice?”
“I’d like to serve red beans and rice at a down-home southern-style joint. There my inner redneck could flourish. I haven’t always been a city boy.”
She says, “Well then, how would a naturalized city slicker talk to the customers? Give me an example.”
“Well, darling how is life treating you down at the convenience store? Is the boss hassling you about them floor mopping duties which the custodians ought to be handling?”
“Honey, I live and work with the blue collar. Your talk is no more working class than a farm boy who reads books no self-respecting redneck should.”
“Well, maybe I should wait tables at a five-star restaurant in a tuxedo. Give me a break. I am a hillbilly at heart.”
She grabs a fork and pries off a chunk of my waffle which she devours. “Mm, looks like I’m not as full as I thought. Tell me, truthfully where you could fit in serving food?”
“I could sell wieners at a hot dog stand.”
“Try to sell me a hot dog, right now.”
“These dogs are plump but not so much that you could choke on them.”
She breaks out into a laughing spree. “My break is almost over. If I could have only one customer you’d be he. Don’t spread it around because every customer wants to feel special.”
“I’ll be the cashier’s pet. But surely we’ll do this again.”
“I wouldn’t turn down such an opportunity for all the popcorn in Yankee stadium.”
“I’m much better than puffed corn,” I counter.
“I’ll be your cotton candy if you’ll be my candied apple,” she repartees.
“Let’s shake hands to that,” I agree.
She says, “This ain’t no gentlemen’s agreement. By gosh darn we’ll seal the deal with a kiss.” She grabs me by the hair and plants a wet sticky one right on my lips.
The city streets are lonely and antiseptic. I sit in a fast food joint, as the only patron amongst the menagerie of chairs and tables. My gaze through the glass windows takes in the cars outside with the shine of their headlights through the shadowy world. Their occupants seek a home in some shape or form.
The cashier girl knows my usual and there is some comfort in familiarity. She multitasks as I gaze upon her busy body. Her jacket is embossed all over with words such as cute, beautiful, sexy, genuine, compassionate, sincere, honesty, and integrity. There is so much more implied behind her pretty smile than sex appeal.
There are cool whispers of fall outside. Yet the season is bleak with the strangeness of urban desolation. My golden age has passed me by without fanfare or trumpets. My heart beats like a metronome.
The cashier behind the counter calls me honey. We share genuine smiles and my blues are lifted in a moment of sincerity. She says, “Do you want your usual? Or should I spice it up with something new and exotic?”
My grin is embarrassed like I don’t know whether to get daring or keep it modest. “What I want isn’t on the menu.”
She throws back her head and laughs like she just heard the funniest joke ever at the comedy club.
I get a shy horizontal lip formation. “Of course I meant waffles with hot sauce.”
She says, “Oh no, you meant me. The Tabasco you want is me. But let’s stick to the menu for now.”
“Well then, waffles with pancake syrup.”
“That is as good a recovery as I’ve ever seen in football. Hey, I got a break in just about five minutes. Let’s jabber over coffee. You can have your waffles as a diversion for when you run out of words.”
My tongue waggles like an off-kilter clown. “This waffle is too much for me. Let’s share it, dearie.”
“The employees get free food here. And I’ve my fill. So you don’t get off the hook. You must talk to me.”
“If you were a waitress, what kind of restaurant would you work at?”
She says, “I’d be a barista girl at a coffee shop. But my countrified lingo wouldn’t fly there. Where would you hang your hat if you had a choice?”
“I’d like to serve red beans and rice at a down-home southern-style joint. There my inner redneck could flourish. I haven’t always been a city boy.”
She says, “Well then, how would a naturalized city slicker talk to the customers? Give me an example.”
“Well, darling how is life treating you down at the convenience store? Is the boss hassling you about them floor mopping duties which the custodians ought to be handling?”
“Honey, I live and work with the blue collar. Your talk is no more working class than a farm boy who reads books no self-respecting redneck should.”
“Well, maybe I should wait tables at a five-star restaurant in a tuxedo. Give me a break. I am a hillbilly at heart.”
She grabs a fork and pries off a chunk of my waffle which she devours. “Mm, looks like I’m not as full as I thought. Tell me, truthfully where you could fit in serving food?”
“I could sell wieners at a hot dog stand.”
“Try to sell me a hot dog, right now.”
“These dogs are plump but not so much that you could choke on them.”
She breaks out into a laughing spree. “My break is almost over. If I could have only one customer you’d be he. Don’t spread it around because every customer wants to feel special.”
“I’ll be the cashier’s pet. But surely we’ll do this again.”
“I wouldn’t turn down such an opportunity for all the popcorn in Yankee stadium.”
“I’m much better than puffed corn,” I counter.
“I’ll be your cotton candy if you’ll be my candied apple,” she repartees.
“Let’s shake hands to that,” I agree.
She says, “This ain’t no gentlemen’s agreement. By gosh darn we’ll seal the deal with a kiss.” She grabs me by the hair and plants a wet sticky one right on my lips.
