Page 63 of Puck Daddies
She finishes in the front and says, “Let’s check the restroom.” She tests the hot water, checks the toilet paper, notes the dust line on the baseboard heater, and measures the soap level, as if the fate of the city depends on the dispenser.
While she works, she talks about going to trivia night at a bar with Callie. I already knew they were friends back in high school. I didn’t realize they’d kept up with each other.
I don’t say anything. I smile and say yes while she circles items.
At the end, she sets the clipboard on the counter and reads the list. “You’re getting a conditional pass. No hot holds out of range, no pests, no evidence of improper cooling. However, you must correct and document these items within forty-eight hours. I’ll return.”
“We’ll get it done.” It’s all I can do not to grit my teeth.
She leaves copies and walks out. I stand there and breathe. It’s not hard stuff. It’s a hundred small things that all take time and money I don’t have. John pops up next to me with a rag. “Who did you kill, boss?”
“Nobody. We have forty-eight hours to be perfect.”
Tom gathers the staff. “Emergency list?”
“Yes. We’re closing for two days. Post a sign. ‘Closed for maintenance. Back soon.’ No one panic. This is fixable.”
Phones come out. Bex updates the socials. Anthony prints the sign and tapes it straight. John drags out the bins. I call Dana and tell her it’s a conditional pass with a mountain of minor, thanks to Callie. She says to document everything, take photos, and keep receipts. “If you suspect targeted enforcement, we can note it later,” she adds. “Fix first.”
I make a list on the whiteboard and assign tasks. Thank god she came before opening, or our failed inspection would be a rumor that’s almost impossible to recover from, no matter the reality of the situation.
We blast the music loud and get to work. I call the parts supplier and find a gasket for our model in stock at the warehouse. Tom shuts off the milk fridge to defrost the back ice so the new gasket will seat. Bex pulls the portafilters, soaks the baskets, scrubs the screens, clears the drain tray, and vacuums the grinder burrs. Anthony prints new date labels with a bold font and clear dates.
John pulls everything out from under the three-bay. We find a rogue lid and a spoon that fell last month. He scrubs the wall until it looks like paint and not grease. Tom shines a flashlight under the espresso machine and cleans like he has feelings about it.
He does. He loves order.
We eat from a sheet pan that Bex made last night and keep moving. I send a quick update to the staff group chat:recheck at four, mandatory all-hands at three for a walk-through.No one complains. They send thumbs-up and bees.
By evening, the list is half done, and my hands are raw. I stay after everyone leaves and start the baseboards in the front. I fill a bucket with hot water and degreaser, grab a stiff brush, and go inch by inch. I don’t think about Callie. I don’t think about the clock. I think about the line of grime lifting and the short strokes that work faster than long ones. My knees ache through the pads. My shirt clings. Sweat stings my eyes.
My phone vibrates on the counter. I wipe my hands, pick it up with a paper towel, and see an email from Callie.
Last chance to sell before you embarrass yourself. You’re not exciting enough for him. You never were. The building transfer is done. Save yourself the energy. Give up now.
I set the phone face down and scrub harder. I make a second bucket and finish the left wall. I stand, walk to the back room, set my forehead against the cool door, and breathe until the urge to cry passes. My body aches. My soul too.
I wash my face, drink water, and go back to the brush. Tom texts me a photo of the light shield bracket ready for morning. Anthony texts a mock-up of new prep labels. Oliver sends a photo of the gasket seal reading true on the leak detector. Rocco sends a song and tells me to sit for five minutes.
I try. But there’s too much to do.
Day two starts with coffee and lists. John brings bagels. We pile into tasks. Tom scrubs the grout lines on the mop closet coving and re-glues the edge with construction adhesive. Oliver reseats a wobbly leg on the front table and adds a pad so it won’t rock during the recheck. Bex resets the sanitizer buckets with test strips at 300 ppm and writes the time on the tape above each one. Anthony prints a poster for the staff drink rule and puts a lidded cup at the prep line that says WATER ONLY.
I call pest control for a courtesy check even though we know we’re clean. I don’t care. I want a recent inspection. The tech walks the line, checks traps, and signs the form.
I call the city about picking up the old light shield. They say leave it by the dumpster with a note. I write “broken shield—please take” on cardboard and tape it to the bundle.
It’s all coming together. But it feels like it won’t be enough.
At noon, Dana calls with a quick update on the hearing request. No date yet. She asks if we’re on track for the recheck.
“We’ll be ready at four.”
At two, I’m on the floor with the baseboard brush again. My shoulders burn. I have sweat in my eyes. It’s quiet except for the fan and the small scrape of the bristles. The shop smells like lemon and soap. My head is loud with numbers and hours and the lost sales from the two days closed.
If I can hold until the end of the thirty days, we might have enough pledged tiles, pre-purchases, and the credit union package to make an offer. Oliver says the interest list is past three hundred. That is hope.
It’s not money in the bank yet.
