"As you are the customer, you are always right ma'am. I'm sure you would like it if I moved faster. But your grotesquely gargantuan troll of a daughter will have to wait a few more minutes for her artery clogging stacks of sausage, because, as it is, I am severely understaffed—Jarrod! You little ingrate son-of-a-bitch! Where in God's Green Hell have you been?!"
"Sorry Mr. Stanley. My car wouldn't start. You know how those Pinto's are. It would be easier to use one of those ancient cars with a crank than rely on that hunk of junk", I said, feigning remorse.
Mr. Stanley did not look at all amused. I'm not sure I've ever seen the veins in his neck and forehead pulsing so far above his body. He really needs to learn how to relax. Count to 10, Mr. Stanley. I would hate to be the reason this man stroked out, or had a massive coronary collapse. Well, I would hate it if people knew I was the cause. I guess I should curtail my lying and sarcastic wit, but now is not the time. Against this crazed behemoth, they are my best and only defenses.
"Don't give me those smug, holier-than-thou, pathetic , little, piss-brained excuses. You're LATE! That's all there is to it. Now get your ass back here and do the goddamned work you're paid to be here on time to do!"
I'm not sure if his sweet sonnet is supposed to be validated with a response, so I apologize to the customer and her beast of a daughter, comp their meal, and get on about my business-tail in tow.
A voice that seems both husky and yet, slightly sensual provides some much needed balm to my figuratively tanned hide,
"Don't worry gorgeousss, your ass alone has more personality than that hairy sack of Idaho Gold. Forget him and get me a kitty with claws, and some catnip to go."
It takes me a few unbelievably long seconds for me to remember I'm at work. I take another look at the customer. It appears to be an old drag queen. He, she, it, whatever, has very square features, an angled jaw, a blond wig sending curls cascading down the leather jacket and denim mini-skirt, which leads my eyes down past her store-bought tan legs, to her red, patent-leather pumps. And she has just ordered a burger, fries, and a milkshake to go. It's all very surreal.
"The name is Ms. Teak. I work at The Closet next door. You are A-DOOR-A-BULL. What's with the deer in the headlights motif you've got going on with your face? I'm a simple drag queen trying to get some lunch and maybe some dessert", she says with a wink.
I am feeling quite speechless, but I force out what I consider to be the most prolific piece of wisdom and wit to ever escape my wind-chapped lips,
"Can I get you anything else?"
I love my impeccable way of making a great situation awkward and strange.
She gives me a mischievous grin and says,
"No thanks hun. Break's almost over. But I'll be sure to come and see you again some time."
I could not think of anything else to say, so I just watch her turn around and depart from the counter for the door. I don't want her to go. I want her to charm me all day and keep Mr. Stanley from getting too many more sticks stuck up his ass. I feel that I am in some sort of turmoil. I want to be with her more than I've wanted to be with anyone in my entire life. I wonder what my father would think about his son being enamored and attracted to an aged drag queen. Moreover—what exactly do I feel about it?
I'm not going to automatically freak out on the off chance I've been a closet mega-homo, lusting for men in drag to un-tuck themselves, strangle me with Dolly Parton wigs, and whip me with riding crops while singing the theme-song from "9 to 5". I'm just a little bit confused, and need some time to think.