Let me preface this by saying that unless a person is Enid from the movie Ghost World or Olivia Newton-John, they're not going to get anywhere makin' they moves on me. I've got enough trouble to deal with these days.
This morning a nice young lady came in and was extremely... um.. befriending from the moment she walked in. I gave her the coffee she ordered, took her money, went back to the employee table, transaction complete. Or so I thought...
She came over to The Table and said "Mind if I join you?" to which I shrugged and hesitantly replied "I guess not..?" For the most part, The Table is commonly known as a sacred VIP employees and friends-only area. It is set up (meaning: there's a bunch of crap cluttering it) so that customers generally know that it's off-limits. She sat down and immediately started digging in.
"So what's your story? Where you from?" and a million other questions. About 2 minutes in to the conversation, I was really wishing a customer would walk in and save me... this of course never happens when you want it to - only when you're busy doing something important like sitting outside on your ass or writing emails to friends.
When she started talking about herself, things took a very strange turn. "Today's my golden birthday... I'm 22 and feelin' you! You're invited to my party on Saturday.."
[insert skipping, screeching record player noise and dead silence here]
Um... okay..?
She continued to speak in poetic pseudo-sk8tr grrl/hipster verse like that to me. She talked more. And more. And more. Minutes seemed to be stretched out like taffy into hours. I looked at my watch and only 5 minutes had passed. I started worrying that I had fallen into some sort of tear in the time/space continuum.
I quickly came to the conclusion that she was a f*&king nutcase. Her vocabulary was littered with "Right ons" and bizarre pieces of sentence that didn't really fit in with anything else she was saying. The best and most frequently used phrase was "So I pedaled to the metal over to so-and-so's".. I learned that "pedal to the metal" = "I rode my bike." I heard a bunch of stories about how her interpretive dancing got her kicked out, or "86'ed", as she continuously said, from all of these clubs. And how her confrontational attitude (gee, I never would have guessed) got her "86'ed" from a few coffee shops. It was getting to the point to where I was going to ask her where she hasn't been given the boot.
Hm. Interesting!
After about 15 minutes, she must have finally taken my typing on the laptop as she was talking as some sort of hint, shook my hand, and left.
And now I work in fear. Genuine fear that she will recall the fact that I was not given any specific details about the birthday party I'm not going to. If I see her coming, I will do some 86-ing of my own: lock the door and put up a sign that says "BE BACK IN 10
