The Lost Art of Cooling One's Jets

People need to be less impulsive.

Seriously. We are human beings. Not animals. Apparently, a large portion of the populace of Backroads has never seen The Elephant Man.

I stopped by my soda-supplier on the way home yesterday. Grabbed my fill-up cup from the passenger seat of my Tahoe, and practically danced a "Wouldn't you like to be a Pepper, too?" jig into that convenience store. Not that I was after a Dr. Pepper, mind you. We all know that Diet Coke is my dark master. But I was elated with anticipation. I only partake of the magical elixir on weekends during the school year.

As luck would have it, another customer had arrived in Cokeland afore me. So I did what any sensible adult would do, and stood back a few feet from the soda bar. Stood right there by the pyramid of the beer of the week, patiently waiting my turn. Three-Soda Annie was jawing with the dude who gives me free refills. I could tell by his voice, even though he was hidden behind the scenes like Oz the Great and Terrible. Three-Soda Annie had already drawn her sodas. She was rummaging through the lids. But her bounty was scattered about the counter without their tops.

"You hit me in the head! Watch what you're doing with that ice, buddy!"

Though I was a bit hurt that Soda Dude has another close personal customer, I did not begrudge them their banter. I could picture him deadpanning his response, while standing on a soda crate and pouring cubed ice from a white ten-gallon drywall bucket into the dispenser. Three pieces of said ice observing me insouciantly from where they rested on the terra cotta tile. "There's no way I could hit you on the head with a piece of ice!" declared Soda Dude. As a square popped over the gap at the top of the soda dispenser, which has not fit properly in that custom-made space since they replaced it two months ago.

"Don't worry. I'll just kick it out of the way so nobody slips on it and sues you." Three-Soda Annie side-kicked the cubes under the edge of the cabinet. She went back to wrestling with the lids and straws.

This all happened in the span of a gnat's wing-flutter. A long-haired methy woman walked in with a younger guy as I stood waiting. She barged ahead. Looked at me with a wary eye. Like my dogs look at each other just before breaking for whatever leftover treat I have tossed onto the porch. Just before they snarl and gnash their teeth until one winner emerges and the other two cower in submission. I did not meet her eye. I've heard that's a sign of aggression.

Methy Woman grabbed a 32 oz. foam cup out of the wall hole. Lightweight. She gave Younger Guy a look of annoyance. Pertaining to me. I could tell. Then she sneered in my direction. Rolled her eyes. I edged closer to the soda bar. The ice dispensers at BOTH ends work now. Careful not to tip over one-third of Three-Soda Annie's beverage haul, I rattled a tiny bit of ice into my refill cup. Three-Soda Annie gathered her be-topped bevy of potables and scooted off to the register. I moved over to the Diet Coke spout.

Methy Woman sprang into action. She pressed that ice lever like a famished lab rat hitting his self-feeder in an obesity experiment. She shot Mountain Dew into her wide-mouthed cup while her own wide mouth practically salivated. As soon as it topped off, she bent her head over and SLURPED like a cowboy at a babbling brook. A drag rider, the cowboy at the back of the herd, after traveling twelve hours across the Dust Bowl. She darted around me and snatched a plastic lid, taking another loud SLURP before covering her caffeine and poking a straw into it.

Something tells me that Methy Woman has not even a passing acquaintance with Emily Post.