CoffeeFlower - Problem Customers
Jun. 26th, 2018 07:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
troublewillfindmeIn which John Bradford owns a coffee shop, Lizzie Regan owns the flower shop across the street, and customers are the worst.
Problem customers are more or less part of the job description. Jane’s a cute kid, but he can’t underemphasize the kid piece — there is no reason he should be having harsh words with men closer to his age than hers, no reason he should have to glower over the counter. He knows town is small, but it’s not that small. Common decency should still be common.
His phone buzzes during the lull, and he looks down. Odds of bridal temper tantrum high today. Pray for me.
He shakes his head and texts her back. At least wedding season’s almost over.
He’s got customers again before he can read her response.
**
She can admit that it’s a love-hate relationship with weddings. On one hand, they are large orders that ensure her overhead gets paid. Her clients are sometimes wonderful people with stories that make her grin until her cheeks hurt, and she actually enjoys doing the larger scale arrangements.
On the other, they are generally painstaking, time consuming, joyless endeavors for clients who think she exists solely to appease their whims.
She sips at her iced tea. It is only ten A.M. and she can feel her blood pressure rising.
“And I want my crown in long-stemmed red roses,” the bride-to-be whines.
Lizzie draws in a breath, contemplating how to broach the topic. “Well, that’s doable, but … if I could make a suggestion? You might be happier with the outcome if you settle on a single color scheme for you, the bridesmaids, groomsmen, and table arrangements. It’ll look more cohesive and it’ll bring down the cost.”
“Are you saying I look like I can’t afford it?”
“Not at all,” she says, offering what she hopes is an apologetic smile. “Only that I know how expensive weddings can be —“
“Nothing is too good for our little girl’s special day,” the mother of the bride says, cutting her off. “Unless you’re saying you can’t deliver.”
Internally, Lizzie rolls her eyes. She’ll have her work cut out for her with this one. “Not at all,” she says, shaking her head, voice light.
“Because if that was the implication—“ The woman presses on.
“Not at all, ma’am, I—“
“Then we will take our business elsewhere.”
She fights the urge to rub her temples. “My apologies, ma’am.”
Two o’clock cannot come fast enough.
–
They sit out on the back steps of the shop, the smell of roasting coffee carrying into the outdoors.
“And then they spent the whole time making comments about how dare I,” she grumbles. “You don’t want me to do your flowers, please, by all means, go somewhere else. Go anywhere else. I hear AD-mart’s got a floral department. Try them.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I had to threaten some guy with a cop call today.”
“What? Why? What happened?”
“He’s been hanging around a few weeks and I knew he was making one of the girls uncomfortable. I finally caught him at it, and told him if he came back, I’d report him for solicitation of a minor.”
“Jane?”
“Yes, she is,” he says, sipping his coffee.
“What is wrong with people?”
“Isn’t that the theme of our lives?”
She laughs. “Yeah, I guess so. Think it comes with the service industry gig.”
“At least we’re the worst bosses we put up with.”
“Thank god for that,” she says, reaching for her tea tumbler. “I can’t imagine having to explain myself to some corporate council.”
“We’d be toast.”
–
They are slammed all afternoon. He does not get a moment to think, to breathe, to coordinate what’s going on among the staff. It is go, go go, and don’t hesitate.
Contrary to what his staff might believe, he is, in fact, aware of the effect the descriptor ‘ex-Naval Officer’ has on some people. He is aware that he is still in good shape, and that his clothes fit properly; those things are by choice. He spent years living that life; it’s too deeply-ingrained in him to give up now.
He would still like to remind everyone that it is not grounds for him to be hit on, set up, pinched, or grabbed.
He understands that he works in a service profession by his own choice, that he could have made a lateral move to private industry and avoided this particular problem.
He knows that there are only so many times you can act against your own nature before it starts to corrode your morals; he knows that staying anywhere near the intelligence community was no longer a choice. It was this, or buying a houseboat, and he’d managed to accrue too many trinkets, too many things with a not insubstantial amount of sentimental value, for the latter to be a viable option.
The bell above the door rings again, but he’s too busy trying to avoid the attentions of a group of housewives to pay it any mind.
“No, really,” one whines. “I’ve got a friend, and you’re juuuuust her type. Big, strong, strapping, ambitious.” The woman eyes him up and down, as if surveying a piece of meat, her long acrylic nails clacking against the table.
He sets the French press on the table. “Really, Ginny, I’m sure she’s —“
“I won’t take no for an answer! You can’t just spend your life running a shop. You have to get out, live a little! You just haven’t found the right woman. I’ll fix that.”
“That’s very —“
“You’ll like her. She’s very into physical fitness. Great endurance, if you know what I mean,” she winks.
He contemplates picking up the press and pouring the scalding liquid on himself. He assumes it would be less painful than continuing to listen to this.
He feels a hand on his arm and turns to see Lizzie standing there, enormous zinnia bloom poking out from behind her ear and a freshly refilled tumbler in her hand. “Hey,” she says, kissing his cheek. “Jane sent me to look for you. She said they needed you behind the counter.”
She smiles up at him, entirely genuine. “I should let you get back to work. I’ll see you later.”
He watches her go, still in a daze.
“Well, there goes that one,” the woman huffs.
He makes his way back behind the counter. “Jane, did you send Lizzie over?”
The girl shrugs. “Someone had to get you back here.”
He sets about brewing another pot of decaf, and takes a moment to check his phone.
Sorry, the text reds. Couldn’t watch you dangle like that any longer.
He fumbles for a moment, trying to think of something clever. He can’t and, instead, settles for the truth. Is it weird now if I actually ask you out?
I think you just did. Name your time & place, handsome.
Maybe he’s beginning to appreciate problem customers after all.
Problem customers are more or less part of the job description. Jane’s a cute kid, but he can’t underemphasize the kid piece — there is no reason he should be having harsh words with men closer to his age than hers, no reason he should have to glower over the counter. He knows town is small, but it’s not that small. Common decency should still be common.
His phone buzzes during the lull, and he looks down. Odds of bridal temper tantrum high today. Pray for me.
He shakes his head and texts her back. At least wedding season’s almost over.
He’s got customers again before he can read her response.
**
She can admit that it’s a love-hate relationship with weddings. On one hand, they are large orders that ensure her overhead gets paid. Her clients are sometimes wonderful people with stories that make her grin until her cheeks hurt, and she actually enjoys doing the larger scale arrangements.
On the other, they are generally painstaking, time consuming, joyless endeavors for clients who think she exists solely to appease their whims.
She sips at her iced tea. It is only ten A.M. and she can feel her blood pressure rising.
“And I want my crown in long-stemmed red roses,” the bride-to-be whines.
Lizzie draws in a breath, contemplating how to broach the topic. “Well, that’s doable, but … if I could make a suggestion? You might be happier with the outcome if you settle on a single color scheme for you, the bridesmaids, groomsmen, and table arrangements. It’ll look more cohesive and it’ll bring down the cost.”
“Are you saying I look like I can’t afford it?”
“Not at all,” she says, offering what she hopes is an apologetic smile. “Only that I know how expensive weddings can be —“
“Nothing is too good for our little girl’s special day,” the mother of the bride says, cutting her off. “Unless you’re saying you can’t deliver.”
Internally, Lizzie rolls her eyes. She’ll have her work cut out for her with this one. “Not at all,” she says, shaking her head, voice light.
“Because if that was the implication—“ The woman presses on.
“Not at all, ma’am, I—“
“Then we will take our business elsewhere.”
She fights the urge to rub her temples. “My apologies, ma’am.”
Two o’clock cannot come fast enough.
–
They sit out on the back steps of the shop, the smell of roasting coffee carrying into the outdoors.
“And then they spent the whole time making comments about how dare I,” she grumbles. “You don’t want me to do your flowers, please, by all means, go somewhere else. Go anywhere else. I hear AD-mart’s got a floral department. Try them.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I had to threaten some guy with a cop call today.”
“What? Why? What happened?”
“He’s been hanging around a few weeks and I knew he was making one of the girls uncomfortable. I finally caught him at it, and told him if he came back, I’d report him for solicitation of a minor.”
“Jane?”
“Yeah, Jane.”
She sucks in air through her teeth. “Christ. Isn’t she, like, sixteen?”“Yes, she is,” he says, sipping his coffee.
“What is wrong with people?”
“Isn’t that the theme of our lives?”
She laughs. “Yeah, I guess so. Think it comes with the service industry gig.”
“At least we’re the worst bosses we put up with.”
“Thank god for that,” she says, reaching for her tea tumbler. “I can’t imagine having to explain myself to some corporate council.”
“We’d be toast.”
–
They are slammed all afternoon. He does not get a moment to think, to breathe, to coordinate what’s going on among the staff. It is go, go go, and don’t hesitate.
Contrary to what his staff might believe, he is, in fact, aware of the effect the descriptor ‘ex-Naval Officer’ has on some people. He is aware that he is still in good shape, and that his clothes fit properly; those things are by choice. He spent years living that life; it’s too deeply-ingrained in him to give up now.
He would still like to remind everyone that it is not grounds for him to be hit on, set up, pinched, or grabbed.
He understands that he works in a service profession by his own choice, that he could have made a lateral move to private industry and avoided this particular problem.
He knows that there are only so many times you can act against your own nature before it starts to corrode your morals; he knows that staying anywhere near the intelligence community was no longer a choice. It was this, or buying a houseboat, and he’d managed to accrue too many trinkets, too many things with a not insubstantial amount of sentimental value, for the latter to be a viable option.
The bell above the door rings again, but he’s too busy trying to avoid the attentions of a group of housewives to pay it any mind.
“No, really,” one whines. “I’ve got a friend, and you’re juuuuust her type. Big, strong, strapping, ambitious.” The woman eyes him up and down, as if surveying a piece of meat, her long acrylic nails clacking against the table.
He sets the French press on the table. “Really, Ginny, I’m sure she’s —“
“I won’t take no for an answer! You can’t just spend your life running a shop. You have to get out, live a little! You just haven’t found the right woman. I’ll fix that.”
“That’s very —“
“You’ll like her. She’s very into physical fitness. Great endurance, if you know what I mean,” she winks.
He contemplates picking up the press and pouring the scalding liquid on himself. He assumes it would be less painful than continuing to listen to this.
He feels a hand on his arm and turns to see Lizzie standing there, enormous zinnia bloom poking out from behind her ear and a freshly refilled tumbler in her hand. “Hey,” she says, kissing his cheek. “Jane sent me to look for you. She said they needed you behind the counter.”
He stares at her, dumbstruck, hoping the blush creeping up his cheeks isn’t noticeable. “They broke the grinder again?”
She nods. “That’s what it sounds like.”
She smiles up at him, entirely genuine. “I should let you get back to work. I’ll see you later.”
He watches her go, still in a daze.
“Well, there goes that one,” the woman huffs.
He makes his way back behind the counter. “Jane, did you send Lizzie over?”
The girl shrugs. “Someone had to get you back here.”
He sets about brewing another pot of decaf, and takes a moment to check his phone.
Sorry, the text reds. Couldn’t watch you dangle like that any longer.
He fumbles for a moment, trying to think of something clever. He can’t and, instead, settles for the truth. Is it weird now if I actually ask you out?
I think you just did. Name your time & place, handsome.
Maybe he’s beginning to appreciate problem customers after all.
