You
Prompt: Write about something that happened to you recently, using a second person point of view.
You adjust your apron, make sure your name tag is on straight, and reach for your closing checklist. Almost everything is marked off, and you smile. Maybe you'll get out of here at a decent time tonight. Orange Juice machine--cleaned. Carrot juice machine--cleaned. Wheatgrass juice machine--cleaned. Lobby--swept and mopped. And the list goes on. As long as no one orders a fresh juice, you're free and clear. You check the time: 7:57pm. Eight more minutes and you can lock the doors. The rain that is still pounding against the pavement has scared off all bu the most tenacious customers this evening.
At 7:59, you grab your keys and head to the door to pull the patio furniture and the umbrellas inside the store. Then a man stops in front of the open doorway and glances in.
"Are you still open?
You hear the hope in his voice and fake a bright smile as you say, "We sure are!"
He steps onto the clean lobby floor, leaving wet footprints next to the Wet Floor sign. Your smile becomes even more forced as he pulls out his cell phone--to find out what his wife wants, he says. Apparently, there is no answer, and he dials again. You're not about to stand behind the counter waiting for him, so you go outside, braving the rain, and stack the furniture and collapse the umbrellas.
When you retreat back inside, water running down the back of your neck and the cold working its way past your skin, your heart sinks further. He is having a discussion with your coworker about how great carrot juice is, and how he drinks it every day. Your mental estimate of the time it will take you to finish cleaning the store spikes as you realize you will have to clean the carrot machine again. But you would never think of telling the customer he can't have his carrot juice.
His phone beeps, and he opens it and stares at the screen. "Matcha Green Tea Blast!" he proclaims, and you head for the register to ring up his smoothie. When he doesn't say anything else, a flicker of hope appears. Even so, ever dedicated to customer service, you force yourself to ask, "No carrot juice?"
"No," he says. "I have my own juicer at home."
The knot of tension beneath your rib cage suddenly breaks and you feel like melting. You are certain you are standing in a beam of light, and could swear you hear the faint strains of an angel chorus. The man collects his smoothie, waves a cheery goodnight, and you follow him to the door. He disappears into the rain, and you may even whistle a bit as you lock the door and turn to finish your shift.
You adjust your apron, make sure your name tag is on straight, and reach for your closing checklist. Almost everything is marked off, and you smile. Maybe you'll get out of here at a decent time tonight. Orange Juice machine--cleaned. Carrot juice machine--cleaned. Wheatgrass juice machine--cleaned. Lobby--swept and mopped. And the list goes on. As long as no one orders a fresh juice, you're free and clear. You check the time: 7:57pm. Eight more minutes and you can lock the doors. The rain that is still pounding against the pavement has scared off all bu the most tenacious customers this evening.
At 7:59, you grab your keys and head to the door to pull the patio furniture and the umbrellas inside the store. Then a man stops in front of the open doorway and glances in.
"Are you still open?
You hear the hope in his voice and fake a bright smile as you say, "We sure are!"
He steps onto the clean lobby floor, leaving wet footprints next to the Wet Floor sign. Your smile becomes even more forced as he pulls out his cell phone--to find out what his wife wants, he says. Apparently, there is no answer, and he dials again. You're not about to stand behind the counter waiting for him, so you go outside, braving the rain, and stack the furniture and collapse the umbrellas.
When you retreat back inside, water running down the back of your neck and the cold working its way past your skin, your heart sinks further. He is having a discussion with your coworker about how great carrot juice is, and how he drinks it every day. Your mental estimate of the time it will take you to finish cleaning the store spikes as you realize you will have to clean the carrot machine again. But you would never think of telling the customer he can't have his carrot juice.
His phone beeps, and he opens it and stares at the screen. "Matcha Green Tea Blast!" he proclaims, and you head for the register to ring up his smoothie. When he doesn't say anything else, a flicker of hope appears. Even so, ever dedicated to customer service, you force yourself to ask, "No carrot juice?"
"No," he says. "I have my own juicer at home."
The knot of tension beneath your rib cage suddenly breaks and you feel like melting. You are certain you are standing in a beam of light, and could swear you hear the faint strains of an angel chorus. The man collects his smoothie, waves a cheery goodnight, and you follow him to the door. He disappears into the rain, and you may even whistle a bit as you lock the door and turn to finish your shift.
posted by Daramis at 22:41
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