the preacher's daughter

I worked at a flower shop for six years. I dreaded about 70% of my work experience.

I found myself desperately seeking out menial tasks-- windexing, feeding the fish (which died a few months into my employment and were never replaced), color-coding candles and stripping roses-- all of which provided diversion from the actual job of dealing with cranky customers and unpredictable bosses.

One of my self-appointed duties was to ensure the coffee, hot cider and cookies were always stocked. The cider was switched out with lemonade when seasonally appropriate and the cookies were snitched by me, which was never appropriate but often needed.

Some people turn to harder substances for coping mechanisms.

Once, an older man came in with his wife and two grown daughters. I immediately directed him to the refreshment table. Given that it was such a highlight in my day, I figured I would share a little love.

Then I went back to my business of organizing the stapler drawer. A few moments later he vaporized in front of the counter. "This cider is too hot!" he wheezed. His voice was so small and unmatched to his physical appearance that I sympathetically responded to his complaint by... laughing.

Actually, I thought he was referencing Goldilocks. Clearly my brain does not follow a linear pattern.

Laughter was apparently not the reaction he desired. Not finding the humor in the situation, he prepared to pull out all the stops. And with a line I'll never forget--

"My daughter is a lawyer, and she could sue!"

Yes. Sue us for a complimentary service we provide, with a warning label "Careful: Cider is VERY hot!" in penmanship scrawled by yours truly.

He was understandably angry. He hated burning his tongue perhaps even more than I hate getting superglue on my fingertips. But that moment has stuck with me.

I don't remember what I said after I stashed the smile and apologized profusely.

I thought about this when I was about to recount another (more positive) experience of working at this flower shop. It's interesting, because I can vividly recall this man's face, and I'm sure I'd be able to pick him out in a line. There are few other customers I remember in such detail-- even of our regulars-- and I don't think I ever saw him again.

But he stuck with me. Not just for his odd voice or my embarrassing reaction, but because of his assumption that he was owed something.
And if you'l allow me an Aesop's moment--

I think I am the same way. I expect that if I work hard, good things will come my way. If I spread around enough kindness karma, surely I'll receive a few opened doors and saved seats.

But neither of us are right.