around – ”
“I know, I know.” Leo moves to make Sam’s coffee. Leo refuses to put any kind of syrup in his customers’ coffee – “Syrup is for sundaes,” he likes to say – but he’ll do it for Sam.
“Oh, and I need something to go with that,” I say.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something sugary. Whatever you’ve got that’s got a ton of frosting on it.”
Whenever Sam drinks, which is often, she likes something sweet the next day. She says it doesn’t really help with the hangover. It just makes her happier.
Leo brings me Sam’s coffee and puts it in a bag along with a carrot cake muffin that’s got about an inch of frosting on top. He nods his head at the newspaper. “So what do you think of the Mets’ chances this year?”
“Oh, geez,” I say. “Spring training hasn’t even started yet and already there’s this nonsense, all this fuss they’re making about Beltran’s unauthorized off-season operation. Do they really think this’ll help matters any?”
“I know, right? But what do you think of their chances?”
“Well, a guy can always dream – ”
“But they’ll still break your heart. It’s the Brooklyn Dodgers all over again.”
Minus the part about Beltran, Leo and I have this same conversation, almost word for word, every morning.
I hear a polite cough behind me and I turn to see that another customer’s come in.
“Oops, sorry,” I say to Leo. “Better get out of your way. Looks like you’ve got another rush.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Leo calls after me, his daily warning.
“I wouldn’t even dream of trying!” I call back. I’m not even sure what that means exactly, in this context. It’s just what I always say to Leo. Every day.
Back in the truck, it’s nice and toasty now, but…
“What the fuck, Sam?” In my absence, she’s slipped a CD on. “I leave you alone for five minutes and you switch off The Wave in favor of some chick music?”
“What did you expect me to do? Sit here listening to your stupid sports station while I freeze my butt off?”
“But you love sports.”
“I know but I love to watch sports. I don’t need to hear people talk about it every second.”
“Here’s your stuff.” I hand her the bag.
She peeks inside. “Ooh! Frosting!”
“You’re welcome.” I key the ignition, pull out of the parking lot, wonder how long I have to listen to this music before I can switch it off and turn The Wave back on.
Actually, the music’s not too bad.
“Who is that?”
“Allison Iraheta.”
“You say that like it should mean something to me.”
“She came in fourth on American Idol last season.”
“Hey, wasn’t that CD you slipped in last week by someone else who came in fourth on a previous season?”
“So?”
“What’s with you and people who come in fourth?”
“Four is my numerology number.”
“Oh. Of course.”
“Plus, I like losers.” I glance over. She’s got frosting on the tip of her nose and she’s giving me a meaningful look. “Sometimes, in their own way, they wind up winning.”
“Deep, Sam. Really deep.”
* * *
We’ve been at the job for about a half hour, just taping so far. I’ve got my earbuds in, listening to The Wave. They’re still talking about the Beltran thing, but now they’re taking callers. I expect to hear some guy going on about the Mets but it’s a woman caller.
Huh. The Wave almost never gets women callers. It’s not like there’s a written law or anything but…
“They did it without Washington and Jenkins,” she says and immediately I know she’s talking about the Jets, not the Mets. I also immediately know that she has a sexy voice. “Can you imagine what they’ll do under Ryan next season?”
I can. And like Sexy Caller, I’m excited about the Jets’ prospects too. No one expected anything from them last season – rookie coach, rookie quarterback, plus, you know, they’re the Jets, they’re supposed to break your
“I know, I know.” Leo moves to make Sam’s coffee. Leo refuses to put any kind of syrup in his customers’ coffee – “Syrup is for sundaes,” he likes to say – but he’ll do it for Sam.
“Oh, and I need something to go with that,” I say.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something sugary. Whatever you’ve got that’s got a ton of frosting on it.”
Whenever Sam drinks, which is often, she likes something sweet the next day. She says it doesn’t really help with the hangover. It just makes her happier.
Leo brings me Sam’s coffee and puts it in a bag along with a carrot cake muffin that’s got about an inch of frosting on top. He nods his head at the newspaper. “So what do you think of the Mets’ chances this year?”
“Oh, geez,” I say. “Spring training hasn’t even started yet and already there’s this nonsense, all this fuss they’re making about Beltran’s unauthorized off-season operation. Do they really think this’ll help matters any?”
“I know, right? But what do you think of their chances?”
“Well, a guy can always dream – ”
“But they’ll still break your heart. It’s the Brooklyn Dodgers all over again.”
Minus the part about Beltran, Leo and I have this same conversation, almost word for word, every morning.
I hear a polite cough behind me and I turn to see that another customer’s come in.
“Oops, sorry,” I say to Leo. “Better get out of your way. Looks like you’ve got another rush.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Leo calls after me, his daily warning.
“I wouldn’t even dream of trying!” I call back. I’m not even sure what that means exactly, in this context. It’s just what I always say to Leo. Every day.
Back in the truck, it’s nice and toasty now, but…
“What the fuck, Sam?” In my absence, she’s slipped a CD on. “I leave you alone for five minutes and you switch off The Wave in favor of some chick music?”
“What did you expect me to do? Sit here listening to your stupid sports station while I freeze my butt off?”
“But you love sports.”
“I know but I love to watch sports. I don’t need to hear people talk about it every second.”
“Here’s your stuff.” I hand her the bag.
She peeks inside. “Ooh! Frosting!”
“You’re welcome.” I key the ignition, pull out of the parking lot, wonder how long I have to listen to this music before I can switch it off and turn The Wave back on.
Actually, the music’s not too bad.
“Who is that?”
“Allison Iraheta.”
“You say that like it should mean something to me.”
“She came in fourth on American Idol last season.”
“Hey, wasn’t that CD you slipped in last week by someone else who came in fourth on a previous season?”
“So?”
“What’s with you and people who come in fourth?”
“Four is my numerology number.”
“Oh. Of course.”
“Plus, I like losers.” I glance over. She’s got frosting on the tip of her nose and she’s giving me a meaningful look. “Sometimes, in their own way, they wind up winning.”
“Deep, Sam. Really deep.”
* * *
We’ve been at the job for about a half hour, just taping so far. I’ve got my earbuds in, listening to The Wave. They’re still talking about the Beltran thing, but now they’re taking callers. I expect to hear some guy going on about the Mets but it’s a woman caller.
Huh. The Wave almost never gets women callers. It’s not like there’s a written law or anything but…
“They did it without Washington and Jenkins,” she says and immediately I know she’s talking about the Jets, not the Mets. I also immediately know that she has a sexy voice. “Can you imagine what they’ll do under Ryan next season?”
I can. And like Sexy Caller, I’m excited about the Jets’ prospects too. No one expected anything from them last season – rookie coach, rookie quarterback, plus, you know, they’re the Jets, they’re supposed to break your
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