I don’t mind standing in lines. Most of the time, it’s a choice between something you want or not getting it. In this case, my object of need was caffeine provided by my favorite coffee purveyor.
The idea of standing in line implies some degree of impatience, and the jangling nerves of low caffeine levels make it worse. On this particular day, those two elements had aligned, and added the Dunkin’ Dillhole.
The Dillhole is a classic line dick, like the guy at Chipotle who wants samples before he decides. Or the twit who waits until he’s at the McCashRegister to decide which stack of grease he wants. The Dunkin’ Dillhole took it a step farther. The Dillhole needed everyone else (about 30 foot-tapping people) to notice, get angry and twitch.
The first Dillhole Move was a group donut order for the office. Forget that the Dillhole had no idea what everyone wanted, and forget that this particular Dillhole did not need to even breathe donut smell. The Dillhole had to query the girl at the counter about the ingredients in each and every donut. “Is there chocolate in that?” “Does this have peanuts?” One dozen unique donuts later, we move on.
The second Dillhole Move was a finicky personal coffee order. It was a large, involved a specific amount of cream, and a particular form of sweetener that didn’t rhyme with ‘sugar.’ The attendant didn’t speak perfect English, so this order had to be reinforced three times, with detailed explanations. By now, we line-standers are vibrating and frowning.
The counter girl produced the coffee, at which point the Dillhole whips out her Dunkin’ Dillhole personal plastic mug. The girl should have known, apparently, that Dillhole wanted this filled, not the Styrofoam cup. And no, we don’t want Styrofoam residue, so go back to the detailed explanation and start over. No ‘please’ for the poor girl, because clearly her function is to take shit from Dillhole, and she should have known. We in line are contemplating violence.
The Dillhole then has to recheck the coffee order to verify before paying. The Dillhole doesn’t take a sip until the box of donuts is handed over, and then we all relax and prepare to get our caffeine fix. No such luck.
Dillhole returns, cuts straight to the counter, and complains that there’s coffee on the outside of the Dillhole Plastic Mug. The disrespected counter girl paused the process of the next paying customer’s order to clean and return it. Durning this, Dillhole eyes each of us with a look that you get from your two year old – a look that says, “I know exactly what I’m doing, and I enjoy owning all you bitches.” Dillhole then moved off. Again, we relax. For about ten seconds.
Only two more orders are done and Dillhole cuts back for the second time. The counter girl looks close to tears. The sweetener and cream ratio is all wrong. Dillhole wears a look of infinite put-upon-ness during this process. I visualize ways of killing the Dillhole. I wonder what the limits are on ‘making a scene’ in the Pentagon.
When my turn at the counter came, it’s the poor girl who endured Dillhole. I say to her, “I’m really sorry about that,” and also, “Medium, cream only – please.” I get a smile, hand over my two dollars, and walk away.
Then I noticed she’d made me a large. The road to hell may be paved with the crushed skulls of coffe shop dillholes, but Karma apparently rewards those who spare Dillhole lives.