"Good evening, hi!
I would love a scoop of cherry," I point.
"And, um, may I have a clean scoop,
and 'allergy protocol'?"
I ask timidly, quietly,
of the server behind the counter,
separated from me
by two cheery rows of ice cream.
"What??" He scoffs.
He looks across the freezer from me,
and grimaces.
His face colors with contempt.
In case I could not read his expression,
he added an unavoidable:
"UGH!"
I startle, as he groans further:
"Ugh, I don't know — CRAIGGGG!!!"
He calls for his colleague.
"Dude, I don't — she asked for — dude take 'this' for me."
He points at 'this.'
'This,' is me.
I am feeling a burden, already.
Hopefully Craig will come to my aid.
But I am not so lucky, for Craig exclaims,
"MAN! I always get THE WORST ONES."
The Worst One —
me, apparently.
He sighs heavily,
while the first server scurries away.
"Are you sure?
This is going to take
— like —
ten to fifteen MINUTES."
[The number of times women are asked, "Are you sure?" Is unfathomable. But I digress.]
"Minutes."
He threatens.
As in,
Don't say yes, don't you even dare.
"Yes, yes, I am sure, please and thank you,
so much, really, so much, I appreciate it."
I reply.
I look across into his eyes,
give a please, really, sir, look.
I am earnest, pleading.
I muster a slim sideways smile, to indicate:
I know I know I know this is extra work, and please, I get it, I'm annoying, and I see you, and I know you have other customers, and yet here I am, in line, and it is now my turn, and I am still excited to eat your famous product. I am jazzed to be here, despite present circumstances! Thank you for your service!
He rolls his eyes dramatically,
with such gusto I am sure they will ache the next morning.
He stops speaking to me.
I take that as a cue.
I siddle over to the counter,
pay the first attendant via Apple Pay,
slowly raise my finger to pick
the "20%" tip button.
In these moments, whether the service is delightful or dystopian,
I always feel obliged to
represent the whole of the ingredient intolerant and food allergic circle.
I can't be petulant
or self-righteous when
I am being judged on behalf
of a wider community.
I stand, stock-still, out of the way,
an unobtrusive statue of shame.
My cheeks grow red
with the knowledge of being observed.
I clasp my hands in front of me,
trying to retain the aura of unbotheredness.
I am serene, I am enough,
I am not Too Much.
I am worthy,
I ruminate.
My mind reels, inwardly,
as I stew in the injustice
of being treated poorly.
All I needed
was a washed metal utensil
to help verify it was contamination-free, to thus enable a side-effects-free night.
That, and a clean tub of ice cream untouched by errant scoops,
that had previously scoured craters into otherwise safe flavors,
thereby leaving skid marks of
peanut butter fudge ripple and Oreo double blast batter blitz.
(Incidentally what my toilet
would look like
should I be so casual
as to waive "allergy protocol.")
My eyes glaze over
as I try
to teleport
out of the moment.
I watch as the store associate
hauls the fresh barrel of ice cream
out of the back walk-in-freezer.
My tub.
The tub that holds the "little treat"
of which I had previously
thought myself worthy.
He slams the three-gallon
cardboard cylinder down
on a back counter,
his anger still evident, palpable.
I sigh, in tiny little exhales, as to not
draw further attention to myself.
Puff, puff, puff, breathe.
I stare out the front window, at my family,
eating their melting ice creams
under the late spring evening twilight,
standing and shifting their stances
to seek comfort on tired feet,
waiting, waiting, waiting for me.
When the pressure feels
measurable in atmospheres, plural,
I am finally called to the front of the store with a curt, "Here."
The cup is dropped down with a thud,
on the cashier counter,
rather than being placed in my hand.
On the surface where other contagions and allergens lurk.
I brush off the bottom with a brown paper napkin, and rid the thought from my head.
I swallow my pride,
my dismay.
"Thank you, I really appreciate the effort,"
I say, meekly.
"Whatever," the 'Dude' says,
already turned away
and onto the rest of his life.
I take the tiny dish of ice cream outside.
But my family is tired; restless.
they want to return to the car,
go home.
I walk with my ice cream in tow,
taking precision scoops
with just the end of my spoon,
barely enough, so that
if some should slip off
and fall to the sidewalk
then I won't burst into tears over its loss.
The ice cream is unctuous
and not too sweet,
it is delicious.
It is also tinged with mockery.
I taste the ridicule
and frustration
in the furrowed stripes caused by the rolling motion of the roving scoop.
My container is empty by the time
I reach for the car door handle.
Our little springtime outing ends quietly,
sullen, as we descend the garage stairwell.
The air we attempt to breath
feels deprived of oxygen.
I am unclear if this is due to being
in a subterranean parking structure,
or from the lingering searing shame
of my audacity to ask for safe dessert.
I clear the cobwebs from my vocal cords;
I find my voice. I open my mouth to share one line
with my fellow family passengers:
"Kindness is free;
please use it with reckless abandon."
