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It was one of the rare occasions that our ice cream machine was working. This didn't happen too often because of two reasons: The ice cream machine was a pain in the ass and expensive to repair, and there was a Dairy Queen across the street, open year round. So, as you can guess, ice cream was never one of our big sellers.
On this day, I was working drive thru. Things were slow, which at the time I was thankful for, but looking back, it was merely the calm before the storm. I hear the beep in my ear, and an engine running, so I press my button and speak to the car at the speaker. Before I'm even able to utter 2 syllables, I get interrupted:
"Is your ice cream machine working!?!
Grrr... "Yes."
"I want 6 chocolate ice cream cones. NOT sundaes, CONES!"
Um, ok. I state her total and ask her to pull around. And that's when I notice several things wrong.
1) She's the only person in the car.
2) She has 1 finger more than the amount of cones she's asking for.
3) All the windows are down on her car, which, in Louisiana summer, means those cones will melt before she gets a mile down the road.
Before I even take her money, I ask her if she'd like us to put the cones in some sort of cup so she can get whereever she's going. I am blasted by her rudely stating "If I wanted that, I would have ordered sundaes!!!".
Alrighty then.
I shove her money in the register draw, give her change, and enlist a coworker to help me make the cones.
One at a time I hand them to her. I'm holding the 3rd one out the window when reality dawns on her.
She can't hold onto 6 cones and drive. No matter HOW many fingers she's got.
At this point, she demands we put them in a cup, upside down. I sigh, take one of the ice cream cones back from her, look over at the fellow helping me, and tell him that NOW she wants them upside down in a cup. He sighs with me, grabs a cup, sets it on the counter next to me and turns around. But he didn't place the cup properly, and it hits the floor. As he bends down to pick it up, ice cream cone in hand, I hear sucky customer lady scream something to the effect of "RACIST BASTARD!" and then feel....something...on my back. Followed by the sound of squealing tires and the smell of car exhaust.
The coworker, an African American guy who knew me both from work and school, and that I was no such thing, just stares at me. I stare back at him in complete disbelief. Time stands still for a moment.
Until I hear the SPLAT! behind me. I turn around, and notice the remains of an ice cream cone lying on the floor at my feet. I feel the cold of the ice cream as it makes its way through the back of my shirt.
Sadly, all we could do was laugh. So we did. Then we cursed her, and made evil plans in case she ever returned.
Which she did.
But that's a whole other story, for a later time.
On this day, I was working drive thru. Things were slow, which at the time I was thankful for, but looking back, it was merely the calm before the storm. I hear the beep in my ear, and an engine running, so I press my button and speak to the car at the speaker. Before I'm even able to utter 2 syllables, I get interrupted:
"Is your ice cream machine working!?!
Grrr... "Yes."
"I want 6 chocolate ice cream cones. NOT sundaes, CONES!"
Um, ok. I state her total and ask her to pull around. And that's when I notice several things wrong.
1) She's the only person in the car.
2) She has 1 finger more than the amount of cones she's asking for.
3) All the windows are down on her car, which, in Louisiana summer, means those cones will melt before she gets a mile down the road.
Before I even take her money, I ask her if she'd like us to put the cones in some sort of cup so she can get whereever she's going. I am blasted by her rudely stating "If I wanted that, I would have ordered sundaes!!!".
Alrighty then.
I shove her money in the register draw, give her change, and enlist a coworker to help me make the cones.
One at a time I hand them to her. I'm holding the 3rd one out the window when reality dawns on her.
She can't hold onto 6 cones and drive. No matter HOW many fingers she's got.
At this point, she demands we put them in a cup, upside down. I sigh, take one of the ice cream cones back from her, look over at the fellow helping me, and tell him that NOW she wants them upside down in a cup. He sighs with me, grabs a cup, sets it on the counter next to me and turns around. But he didn't place the cup properly, and it hits the floor. As he bends down to pick it up, ice cream cone in hand, I hear sucky customer lady scream something to the effect of "RACIST BASTARD!" and then feel....something...on my back. Followed by the sound of squealing tires and the smell of car exhaust.
The coworker, an African American guy who knew me both from work and school, and that I was no such thing, just stares at me. I stare back at him in complete disbelief. Time stands still for a moment.
Until I hear the SPLAT! behind me. I turn around, and notice the remains of an ice cream cone lying on the floor at my feet. I feel the cold of the ice cream as it makes its way through the back of my shirt.
Sadly, all we could do was laugh. So we did. Then we cursed her, and made evil plans in case she ever returned.
Which she did.
But that's a whole other story, for a later time.
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