I've got a small line of people buying pre-work coffee, donuts, newspapers and energy drinks when a woman at the pop machine in the back of the store yells up to me: "You're out of Diet Pepsi!"
Despite the loud pronouncement, she clings onto hope, as I can hear the repeated "click . . .ccchhhhhhh," "click . . .ccchhhhhh," "click . . . ccchhhhhh," "click . . . ccchhhhh" . . . as she keeps trying to extract something, anything, perhaps a drop or two, from the fountain spigot.
"I'll be right with you," I reply.
As the last person in line leaves I see others pulling into the parking lot. The morning rush begins. I hurry back to the woman and tell her I will get some more Diet Pepsi hooked up right away. "It should just take a moment," I tell her. "Thanks for your patience."
"Please hurry," she says. "I need to get to work."
She seems desperate. As I hurry over the little closet of sorts, right next to the swinging-door entrance to the bathroom -- where, behind a black curtain, we keep the Co2 cartridges, regulators, hoses, tubing, fittings, various flavored-syrup boxes and an other inner, behind-the scenes workings of the soda-dispensing world -- I can still hear, "click . . .ccchhhhhhh," "click . . .ccchhhhhh," "click . . . ccchhhhhh," "click . . . ccchhhhh."
I quickly disconnect the BIB (bag-in-box) Connector from the empty box of Diet Pepsi, move it out of the way, pick up a new box, but have difficulty hooking it up. I impatiently struggle. (I figured out later that I was trying to connect the wrong hose -- Coke products are apparently incompatible with Pepsi). The box -- half on the cramped shelf and half under my arm -- slips, hits the floor, and the molasses-like, no-calorie goo spills all over the floor. Or, more precisely: caramel color, aspartame, phosphoric acid, potassium benzoate, caffeine, citric acid, natural flavor, phenylketonurics and phenylalanine. It's a mess. A sticky mess. Like a mini tar-sands oil spill oozing right out into the narrow entrance to the Men's and Lady's rooms.
I quickly glance out to the register. Another small line is forming. I walk out towards the ongoing "click . . .ccchhhhhhh," sound and politely tell the lady, "I am really sorry, but I can't get that hooked up right now, but we do have some Diet Pepsi in cans and bottles over in the cooler."
She looks distraughtly disappointment, but heads for the coolers. I hurry back up front and ring up the customers. The "click . . . ccchhhhh" lady puts two 20-ounce bottles of Diet Pepsi on the counter. I again apologize and tell her one of the bottles is "on the house" (I actually pay for it when she leaves, but I don't mind, she's a regular and usually very nice.) She smiles and says "Thank you."
In the meantime, a guy with big work boots heads in to the use the bathroom and, rather than step over the syrup spill, walks right through it. When he's done in the bathroom, he tracks it all over the store -- a black, Family Circus-like trail weaving up, down and around most every aisle -- apparently indecisively in search of the perfect morning snack while talking loudly on his cell phone. He finally decides on a poppy seed muffing and brings it to the counter.
Whomever he is talking to on his phone is apparently a New England Patriots fan as he keeps repeating, "Man, they don't have a prayer against my Hawks! Put your money where your mouth is!" He gives me an odd hand and arm signal that I am guessing means, "That's all, please ring it up while I continue with a phone call that is more important than being aware of the reality around me."
"Excuse me," I say, "I hate to interrupt your conversation. But are you aware that you walked through a puddle of Diet Pepsi syrup and tracked it all over the store?"
He looks down at his feet, then at his back trail, and appears, at least for a moment, sincerely surprised. He shrugs his shoulders and proceeds talking into his cell about how damn good Russell Wilson and the Seattle defense is . . .
