Cross Roads

Chapter Four: Fury

— Chapter Four: Hell Hath No Fury Like A Sister Recycled —

I am exhausted.

I am in desperate need of another caffeine fix.

Unfortunately I am too busy dealing with lunch rush to entertain the notion of downing an entire two pots of coffee and a shot of espresso for long.  I am running around, getting out counter and drive-thru orders.  I feel like I am doing a remarkable interpretation of a chicken with its head cut off.  I feel as though it would be almost comical if I wasn’t so irritated by my lack of sleep and my too long shift.

I sigh and stop an Asian man from taking someone else’s order.  I give him his correct food, repeat exactly what he ordered, and then listen as he tells me that’s not what he wants.  When I offer to give him a refund and then ring him up for the food he says he wants he walks away with a smile and I am left confused.

I go back to handing out orders, getting more and more frustrated by the minute.

Finally, going on three, the lunch rush ends.

“Spencer!  I need change!” my headset person calls.

“Brandon’s back there!” I answer, too busy stocking up front counter after the disaster that has just occurred.  I am so fortunate to have gone through the breakfast and lunch rushes, and I cannot wait until dinner.  Hopefully I’ll be out of here before people start showing up in desperate need of a cheap ice cream fix.

“What do you need?” the GM yells from where he is standing in the office leafing through a recent fax.  It’s probably a complaint about us taking too long with an order.  People are so picky and annoying these days.

From the storage space beneath front counter I grab the cups that remain inside, stocking up the dispensers.  When I run out of things up front I go into the back and fill up my arms with everything else that I will need, shimmying my way back and nearly losing my oh so precious cargo.  Somehow I make it, just in time to deposit the sleeves on the nearby cooler.

“Grab enough?” my order taker laughs, grabbing a sleeve and going over to stock the dispenser behind her.

I laugh, clearly not amused.  “This sucks,” I groan, loading up the cups at the drive-thru window.

She nods.  “Tell me about it.  When do you leave?”

“Eight.”

She winces.  “Seriously?  Didn’t you open?”

“Yep,” I say, nodding stiffly.

“How did that happen?”

I glance up and see Brandon walking up to the front.  “Ask this guy,” I grumble, pouting.  “This dumb-y didn’t want to call anyone else – who doesn’t work today – and see if they would come in.  No, he asked me in a way that wasn’t really a question.”  I glare at him.  “I hate you.”

My boss isn’t fazed, laughing it off.  “I’ll make it up to you, Spencer.”

“Bringing me coffee doesn’t count.  That’s something you have to do.”

“I do, huh?”

I nod again.  “Yeah, unless you want a really grouchy, really inefficient manager on your shift.”

“God forbid that happen,” he says with a mocking gasp.

“Don’t you make fun of me!” I cry.  “I haven’t slept in forty-eight hours.”  Just thinking about it makes me tired.  I feel a headache building and make a note of raiding the office for some more Tylenol.  I had been fighting this headache all morning; ever since I left the Knightlys’ ghastly party, in fact.