Cabana Man

Day: Tuesday
Brew: Sumatra
Mood: Pretty Good (including a few ups and downs)

I recently started working morning shifts again, and this is bad because it means waking up at 5 a.m. (boo) and good because it means good tips during the busiest time of the day. There are two highlights of my morning, and they bookend the shift: the end, when I count my plentiful tips, and the beginning, when our breakfast tacos are delivered.

Now some of you unfortunate souls may not know what breakfast tacos are because you are not from Texas. (Get ready to thank me.) Actually, I grew up in Texas but had never heard of these "breakfast tacos" until I moved from North Texas to the great city of Austin. Apparently, Dallas-Fort Worth is too far from Mexico to know what breakfast tacos are. Either that, or breakfast tacos are an invention from the southern half of Texas. (Come to think of it, I don't remember seeing such things when I visited Mexico.) Anyway, these heavenly creations are breakfast items--eggs, potato, bacon, chorizo, sausage, cheese, whatever--rolled up in a tasty tortilla. Now, I can eat breakfast food all day and all night, and tacos with so many goodies rolled up in 'em are a treat so good that--once I found them--I mourned the eighteen years I'd spent oblivious to their existence. No, ignorance is NOT bliss. Breakfast tacos are bliss. Especially the ones we sell: They are delivered piping hot at 6:15 a.m. and sell out by about 8:15 in the morning. You snooze, you lose, suckas.

Now our tacos are delivered by a taco delivery guy, and the guy who has recently been delivering tacos to me is new. And flirtatious. And gay. That's right. (I'm a chick, by the way.) Somehow, he manages to be simultaneously extremely flirtatious with me and extremely gay. It boggles my mind. Now, straight, gay, whatever, this delivery guy put me off from the beginning. First, he sashays in (yes, truly sashays) behind my counter, calls me "darlin'" and starts to poke through my unopened pastry delivery for an oatmeal cookie--his favorite, he tells me. No strange guy just calls me "darlin'". And no one goes through my pastry delivery box except me. I know that last one might seem petty, but, when you're in the service industry, you stake out your territory and hold fast to it...it's one of the few ways to resist feeling completely at the mercy of the jerks we serve. So those were Strikes One and Two. He strikes Three when he prepares to leave and goes in for a hug and KISS on my cheek...BUH and DOUBLE BUH! And this is the first time I've ever seen the guy! Of course, I denied him the kiss or even a cheek rub: it turns into a sideways half-hug (on his half) with me straining to pull my head away from his face while he pretends not to notice how awkward this was. Ick.

The next time, I'm cranky (sooo not a morning person) and behave icily toward him as a result of our last encounter. His solution? To tell me "you're beautiful" so "don't something-something" I don't even know what the rest was. I muster an "eh-heh" half-laugh, and he thinks we're pals now. So, now he calls me "sweetie" and gives me side hugs and cracks "jokes". The trade off (cuz I can tell this guy is not going to change his ways, and I oughtta try to get along b/c I depend on him for my heavenly tacos), is that I allow him to side-hug me and call me "sweetie", occasionally acknowledge his "jokes", and even toss in a "have a good day" now and then. But he knows a) he is never to go through my pastry box again, and b) he is to keep his lusty lips away from me.

Come to think of it, I think the next time he goes in for a hug, I'm gonna have to put my foot down. I shouldn't have to take unwelcome physical contact (often known as harrassment?) from anybody, not even a gay guy.