Chocolate Chip Cookies & The Molestation of Elbows

In this world there are good combinations (cookies and cream, rock paper scissors, men and women) and bad combinations (cookies and sour cream, fox news and csnbc, men and women).  There is a particular trio here at Siren which defiantly occupies both camps.  That trio comprises me, Leonora, and Baker.  When we close the store together (think protracted stint inside a petri dish of exponentially breeding insanity), we can pretty much count on mayhem, paralytic ecstasy, and also strange bruises of assorted suspicious shapes.

I’ve wondered what it is about our chemistry that makes the three of us so susceptible to sidesplitting skullduggery.  Part of it is because we’re all offbeat and prone to puns.  Leonora’s always a prickly succulent bundle of madness, like a bag of broken spaghetti, and you never know which pasta bit is going to poke you in the eye.  Her nervous energy winds me up and makes me much more conversationally hyper than usual; our mutual Tourettic impulses flare and make beautiful music together.  And Baker, of course, is ready to burst into song at the drop of a hat (or the drop of an ice bucket… or pitcher of milk).

Another part of it is that Leonora has decided she likes Baker.  Not in an official, straight-to-the-top-of-the-birthday-list, Do-Want-tied-up-with-a-bow sort of way.  Or actually, yes, a little like that, except for the fact that she would never actually go after him.  (She has her own batty royalty beating a path to her door.)  But the thing about Baker is, he’s kind of like a big chocolate chip cookie, slightly crunchy on the outside, slightly squashy on the inside, sweet, sustaining, studded with chocolate that teeters eternally on the edge of molten magnificence – and while he has some vague idea that he’s a cookie, is almost completely oblivious to uh what goes on between the cookie and the eater thereof.  What am I trying to say?  Let me take a breath.  Bottom line: He’s pretty fine-looking if you’re a fan of aquiline noses, lisps, and adorable madcappery.  And despite his overwhelmingly incorruptible cookieness, Leonora is absolutely addicted to ferreting out his tiny, teeny, buried streak of naughtiness, and coaxing it into blossom.

If that sounds creepy, well uh.  There is plenty that goes on here that’s creepy, but most of it is highly affectionate.  I’m sure that doesn’t help.

On this particular night we were done with all the major tasks, the store was empty, and we were counting down to a corporate-funded night of disco-lit debauchery.  (Okay, it may just have been corporate-funded bowling.  But nevertheless, if you get us all jacked up on slushies and hot wings and put us together in a big dark place with loud music and ten million flashing lights and a freaking fog machine, for pity’s sake, don’t expect a display of sportsmanship and skill – expect debauchery.)

Our story begins with Leonora and Baker already midskirmish, going hand-to-hand in a very handsy way.  Baker is brandishing a five-pound bag of sugar as if gauging its potential as a blunt instrument – or worse, its capacity to cover our entire store in a layer of underfoot-crunching granules.

“Baker!” I yell, transfixed by this vision. “No sugar-pouring!”

Leonora whips around, and our glances fuse. “Pour some sugar on mee!” she yodels, with far too much enthusiasm.

“In the name of love!” I growl, because I still have some shame left.

Baker beats a strategic retreat from drive-thru, flees toward the front of the store, and capsizes into a heap of trash bags behind the pastry rack.  “Sugar and spice and everything nice, huh?” he yells.  A few ice cubes patter against his knees, followed by Leonora’s giggle.  “What’s Leonora made of then?  Guns and knives, and…DEAD PEOPLE’S LIVES???”

“Stop throwing ice!” I say, except for some reason it seems to come out more like “Ice fight!  Ice fight!  Ice fight!”

“HIMALAYAN SALT FIGHT!” screams Leonora, flinging pink crystals from a fancy bar jar.

“Stop molesting the salt!  It never did anything to you and also it cost seven bucks!” I yell.  (Salted Caramel Hot Chocolate will never die, even if we have to buy our own supplies.)

“Molesting the salt?  She’s molesting my elbows!” Baker bellows, because now Leonora has grabbed him from behind and is palpating his elbows like there’s a cash prize at stake.  He looks half terrified of her fiendish giggling, but is helpless with laughter.

“Dead people don’t have lives!” I say sternly, grabbing a milk jug, which seems to be considering suicide by sink.

“That’s because she took them!” he gasps, wrenching himself from her grasp.  “What do I keep telling you, Nora?  You can’t have all my body parts!”

A dreadful delicious pause, during which Leonora and I grin fiendishly.  Because, of course, the fantastic implication is that she can have at least a selection of his body parts.

“I get the elbows!” she coos, breathing hard.  “What else?  How many can I have?”

“None!” he squawks, backtracking rapidly.

“Elbows it is, I mean, you definitely said she couldn’t have all your body parts, and elbows aren’t all of them,” I say in my best arbiter-of-reason manner.  The fact is, I got Leonora started on his elbows: Once upon a time while discussing various attributes of attraction, I happened to bring up Baker’s elbows, because I’m weird.  She seized on this idea of elbows-as-highlights-of-the-male-body, made me confess the whole conversation to Baker, and…there was no going back.  She’s been obsessed ever since.  I wouldn’t mind, except if she’s snatching feels all the time I’m never going to get the chance, at least not without giving the ‘overkill’ button a good hard jab in the process.

By this time Leonora has cornered Baker near the chemical-bathed oven.  Its open door jabs him ticklingly in the ribs, and he folds up into hysterical laughter like an origami firecracker.  This sets off me and Leonora, and we flatline from pure glee for a moment.  As we all wipe our eyes and try to swim back to sanity, Leonora holds up a finger.  “I just need one more, Baker,” she whispers, laughing almost too hard to speak.  “One!”

I’m going to be honest: I don’t really remember what happened after that.  The memory seems to catch on itself like a scratched-record groove, repeating in an endless tipsy fugue of ice and sugar and salt, with the friendly-innuendo knob dialed up to eleven.

So let’s review the results of this combination of crazy.  Awesome?  Yes.  Blazingly inappropriate?  Heck yes.  One of the best bad ideas ever to be visited on a place of business?  CAN I GET AN AMEN.

I love my coworkers.

A Significantly Unimportant Update

Jensen, Colleen, and myself have officially formed a tribe.  The following is a handwritten note from the closer (myself) to the opener (Felicia, my manager), inscribed forever in a record book which after its use has ended will be shipped to a facility in Wisconsin and enshrined forever with its million brethren:

F-LISH!*

We are out of Soul**!  I hope the store looks okay anyway.  We were overrun by recurring hordes of scavenger-hunters who kept coming into Siren, clogging the store in giggling hordes, and wanting to take pictures of stuff they weren’t supposed to.  FYI, me, Jensey, and Colleen have formed a tribe and christened ourselves the “Below-the-Belters”*** by spilling passionfruit tea all over the floor.  HAVE A GREAT OPEN!

–INDI

*Felicia’s rapper name, first bestowed upon her by Silver in the bad old days.

**Soul being the brand of bleach-based everything-cleaner whose aroma calms and comforts us.  Oh, and also cleans.

***Below-the-Belters: Because it’s our tradition to stop everything and watch Colleen belt along with the Janis Joplin-wannabe everytime her song is played on the Siren soundsystem, which is about twenty times per shift.  Also, because we’re all about fighting dirty.

That Doesn’t Seem Physically Possible

Sometimes at Siren we gradually become aware of our regulars’ names without learning them proper.  In this instance, the regular’s name is Crest, and he always floats in at about ten a.m. for his grande shots-on-top with-room americano  with five pumps of classic.  He’s in restrained dark work clothes, but between his long blond ponytail, Nordic blue eyes, and bright sheepish naughty grin, he’s been dubbed “a groovy cat” by Jensen, which is the highest order of compliment.  Our conversation goes like this:

Me, behind the register: “Hey Crest.  You having your regular?”

“Yeah…” he admits, as if caught red-handed and about to be ticketed for ordering the same drink forty-five visits in a row.

I run his credit card and say, ruminatively, “So who was it who first learned your name?  Leonora?  Or was it Reese?”

“Yeah, probably Reese, since he use to work down in Gathsalt.  I guess he’s got my name-cherry.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence, which my blink doesn’t exactly fill.  I bite my lip to keep from snickering.

“First time I ever used that term,” he says, accepting his card and receipt.

“Think you’ll use it again?” I ask, grinning.

“Heck no,” he breathes, sliding over to the handoff plane.

And with that reassurance, I feel like I’ll be able to sleep tonight.

A Rare Privilege In Puking

Hurling in public restrooms is rarely, if ever, fun.  But a couple nights ago during the Dark Dank Grim Sickly-Pickled Night Shift of Doom, I had the privilege of doing so in a beautifully clean one.  When you’re on your knees at the whim of sudden bile, the appearance of a snow-white and irreproachable commode is a reassuring sight.  Sort of a morale boost.

When I was finished and flushed, it was as if it had never happened.  I felt cheerful, inasmuch as anyone can feel cheerful after seeing their insides floating in a toilet bowl.  I tottered back onto the floor and donned my apron.  “Who cleaned the toilets?”

Jensen and Leonora harmonized on a nice healthy “Ummmm…”

“Jensen did the bathrooms,” Colleen volunteered, “but he didn’t really do the toilets, because they looked okay.”

“Uh,” I said.  At least I hadn’t known that while puking.  “Well I just wanted to say that while I was up close and personal, they looked lovely.”

“In that case, I did them,” said Jensen.  “Worked really hard on them.”

“Good job, Jensen,” I told him weakly.

“Anytime.”

New Hazards of the Booty Grab

The store is empty.  I’m standing in drive-thru, curled over the edge of the stainless-steel counter, transcendently ill and slightly delirious.  Leonora and Jensen, having satisfied themselves that I wasn’t yet at the point of death, are over at the drive-thru window hitting each other.  Well.  It isn’t out-and-out punching.  It goes more like this:

There’s an air-curtain fan above the drive-thru window which can output a smooth blast of cold or hot air on demand (at the volume of a small jet engine), to protect us baristas from the brutal outside environment and prevent flies from meandering in.  Well, it works in terms of temperature, not so much in terms of fly prevention, because the flies do pretty much whatever the frack they want to.  The point is, there is a sticker on the lower part of this device which reads: “CAUTION: May Be Hot.”  It’s a shiny sticker with red lettering, and Leonora wants it.

But as Leonora reaches up to peel it off, Jensen bats her hand away.  She giggles and reaches again.  He giggles and hits her again.  She hits him back and reaches with her other hand.  He hits both her hands with both his hands.  And then it degenerates into a giggling free-for-all.

After exhausting themselves (whether through the violence or the giggling isn’t clear), Leonora begins to yowl at Jensen in a highly dignified manner.  “You know what’s really going on is, you don’t even care about the stupid sticker, you just don’t want me doing what it is I’m doing because you’re so contrary!  A contrary hippie!  Contrippie!”

I’m hit with a blast of inspiration that feels suspiciously like enthusiastic nausea.  “Leonora!” I croak.  “You should put it on your rear end.“

“Exactly!  That’s exactly what I’m trying to do!” she proclaims, drawing herself up to her full height, which is still about two feet less than Jensen.

There’s a perfect moment of encapsulated inspiration, then Jensen peels off the sticker as if it’s a benjamin for a stripper – not too fast, but plenty enthusiastic.  Leonora gravely affixes the sticker to her back pocket.

Jensen laughs, and so does his beard.  “Ha ha ha ha… Caution—”

“MAY be hot,” we say together.  “That is so awesome!  Let me take a picture,” I beg.

“AND WHERE WOULD THAT PICTURE END UP???” she demands.

“…phacebuk…” I mumble.

“My booty is NOT going on Facebook,” she says firmly, “no matter how much better it would make you feel.”

“At least leave it on your pants for the rest of time,” Jensen says.  I look hopeful.

“For the rest of time,” she acquiesces, “or until the adhesive wears off, whichever comes first.”

I’ve gotta invest in some superglue.

Eavesdropping On A Seductive Smorgasbord of Smells

Once upon a time, I was making a drink that required two lungfuls of air to call out.  The milk was foaming obediently, and I turned my head to gaze out the window, which is a luxury reserved for seasoned baristas whose hands know what to do while their heads go romping across the countryside (figuratively, not literally; otherwise there would be a whole division of police devoted to the pursuit and accostment of these AWOL heads, which would naturally be in search of alcohol and mayhem).

As I looked out the window, I was met by a tableau of unprecedented romance, although I seriously doubt there was actual romance in play: Our own Riviera – the voluptuous veteran of the store, fondly known as Tex-Mex Taffy – looking as sad as I’d ever seen her.  She was at the smoking table, but for once, there was no cigarette in sight.  Her head was in her hands.

Jet sat across from her, attuned to her every movement, quiet like a panther in the grass.  His arm bridged the table between them, and as he answered her, he ran his hand up and down her forearm soothingly.

I was making an effort not to stare, but that effort made my eyes water, and in any case I gave up and dedicated myself to staring, putting my drink-making skills on full autopilot.  There was no way this was what it looked like.  For one thing, Riviera is a supervisor, and she has enough sense to keep flagrant rule-flouting on the down-low.  For another thing, Jet is a notorious confidant of the girlies here at Siren.  Even if you don’t want emotional support, he will be there for you.  He is that rare breed of boy who is totally innocent and one hundred percent devoted to helping those in need.  Even if doing that really, really looks like he’s doing something else.

Which turned into something else again: As I watched – okay, yes, stared – they rose from the table and enclosed each other in an unending hug, the kind of hug that could probably stretch on for days and weeks and might possibly generate its own shield from inclement weather and rude interruptions, the kind of hug that is a perfect stillness, a perfect synthesis of two interdependent shapes.  I stared some more.  They kept on hugging.  I amused myself with a thousand theories, extrapolations, and projected prognoses of the possible outcomes of this situation.  They kept on hugging.

So as the two of them stood there in the somnolent sunshine, in that anthropomorphic yin-yang embrace, I began to wonder—not wonder why or how they found themselves in such a position, but rather, what they each were smelling: Riviera’s head was cradled in the clean curve of Jet’s neck, his downy curls tickling her cheek and forehead.  Jet, I imagined, would probably smell like dried wheat and baby deer eyelashes, white mountain sage and cold air, fresh chalk, dewy blueberries; the man’s version of new-car smell.  I could see Jet’s face more clearly, bent against Riviera’s brassy hennaed head, breathing into her ear.  Riviera would smell dramatically different: Salty pink sand and cherry blossoms, hot maple syrup, foggy dawn and rumpled sateen sheets, Malibu rum, sweet bell peppers in a frying pan.

I made at least fifteen more drinks before the hug began to slowly fissure, like a lazy glacier under Caribbean sun, if a glacier were stupid enough to ride the currents down that far.  And I decided it was best not to repeat this story of staring.  They wouldn’t understand about the smells.

Whipped Cream Vs. Heavy Thinking

I’m making whipped cream: I have a regiment of ten shining stainless canisters and am adding vanilla syrup and heavy cream, in a mindless cycle of repetition.  Hollis, whose electric-watermelon hair has faded a little, charges out of the back with a stack of dishes, saying, “It’s crazy how fast the world goes…everything changes.”

Jet follows her with our huge iced coffee camper, a grin pulling at the corners of his slender mouth.  His hazel eyes have turned from eiderdown to hard liquor – I know that look.  Never have I seen the boy pass up an opportunity to philosophize.  “What if,” he asks, “there were something that never changed?  So that everything in the world was in a state of constant transformation, but under the surface of it all, there was something immutable and absolute?  Wouldn’t that make the change itself something temporary and superficial, an exercise in futility?”

“You just blew my mind,” says Hollis promptly, giving him the sort of stare reserved for bicyclists on the wrong side of the road during a hurricane.

“That’s his main goal in life,” I volunteer, screwing on the canister lids one by one.

Jet looks modest.

Heaven help me, I can’t let it go:  ”I feel like the temporal world is so subjugated by entropy that, if there is something truly changeless, its very existence by definition makes it not of this world—in other words, from a higher plane.”

“I’m walking away from this one,” says Hollis, “so my brain won’t melt on me.”

I twist on capsules of compressed air and begin to shake the canisters violently, in the interest of discouraging further philosophy.  I can only hold onto one paragraph at a time, so extended discussions make me look bad.  I stare at Jet, who is still lingering ruminatively.

“Down boy,” I say.  “Go philosophize with the soap suds.  We’re done here.”

He makes a show of being downcast, drags his feet, and then flees with a chuckle and a vanishing Russian phrase I don’t recognize.  To be fair, there aren’t any Russian phrases I recognize.

I shake my head and concentrate on not following him.  And I begin to wonder: Why are philosophical skirmishes more common here than whipped cream fights?  I shake the canister harder.  We just might have to do something about that.