Page 3 of Sugar Coated Lies
“Pie?” I suggest out of habit.
“Pie?” he snaps in that mocking tone, his head down, his damp bangs still covering his face as he pats down his jeans. “Do I look like I’m here for pie?”
“One coffee coming up.” If Gary weren’t here, I might risk kicking this man to the curb. Instead, I march to the kitchen, my tongue locked between my teeth.
I’ve dealt with grumpy customers before. But they’re regulars with real problems: veterans, widowers, mechanics with bad backs and broken fingers—real reasons to complain. What could this guy possibly have to be grumpy about? I suppose his friends did abandon him in the rain. If he speaks to them the way he talks to me, I can’t say I blame them.
The coffee machines are off because we were closing. This will take a minute. I’m sure he won’t be happy about it. I get the coffee brewing as quickly as I can.
When I glance through the peephole window in the door, I find the man sitting at a booth near the window with his head in his hands.
Is he sad?
Sadness can show itself as anger in some people. My grandpa is a perfect example. It’s not personal, just how he reacts. And because I’m a sucker for anyone hurting—know a lot about it, having lost so much myself—I get a slice of our famous pecan pie and bring it to him.
“On the house while you wait for your coffee. The machines were off, so it will be a minute. Good news is you’re getting a fresh batch.”
“Thank you,” he murmurs, shocking me with his manners.
A voice clears behind me. Gary.
Shit.
He walks into the kitchen, waving for me to follow him.
I hurry over.
“Did I hear you say ‘on the house’?” he asks with disdain.
Can he speak any louder? I’m sure the guy can hear him.
I nod and try to avoid eye contact. It only makes him angrier.
“Then it’s coming out of your pay.”
I nod again. It’s only three dollars. I’ll get overtime for working late.
As if he can hear my thoughts, he says, “And no overtime. This customer should have been in and out, now I’ll have to dock your pay for after-hours expenses. Extra laundry, electricity, A/C.”
I gape at him. “By how much?”
“Fifty should cover it.”
“Fifty?” It’s my turn to get loud. “That’s not fair.”
“What is fair is me not firing you for raising your voice at me. Now get back to work.” He fills a mug with coffee, swipes a slice of pre-cut pie from the fridge, and returns to his office.
Tears well in my eyes. I can’t spare fifty dollars this week—or any week, really—but this Friday I need to pay several overdue bills and their late fees, or we won’t have electricity and water. I never let things get this bad, but I was sick for four days with a nasty stomach flu that caused me to lose seven pounds and five days of work.
Where am I going to get an extra fifty bucks? Shit. I stomp. My foot reminds me of how sore it is by sending a flare of pain up my leg.
I can’t break down. Not here. Not now. Grandpa needs me to be strong and find a way to keep us afloat. Getting fired will only make things worse.
Forcing myself into robot mode, I fill a mug with coffee, grab a saucer with cream, and carry it to the table.
The plate is empty. He ate the entire pie, not even leaving a crumb. At least he liked it. I made it fresh when I arrived. I love making pies, and I’m good at it. If I could afford to get creative, I’d combine fruits and make a variety of pies for Grandpa and myself. He’d love it. His love for pie is the one thing his mind never forgets.
“You don’t by chance have pecan milk?” the guy asks in a glum tone, his gaze still down, his shoulders sagging in a defeated way.
