Cool Hand Luke

In that two to two and a half hour lull (hereafter referred to as “The Lull”) at Petite, it gets boring. So, I started bringing books to work. I realize that this probably isn’t the most professional thing to do, but hardly anyone at all comes during The Lull. I have found if I stand behind the counter with my book on top of the cash register, I can see when a customer is approaching and it gives me enough time to put the book away before they get to the counter. To them, it just looks like I’m doing something important on the cash register.

I read most of The Killer Angels at home, but the last few chapters were read at Provence in the aforementioned Lull. I got down to the point that I only had two chapters left in the book. It was the night before the final showdown at Gettysburg.
I had disciplined myself to not venture to Wikipedia to find out what happened on that last day of battle. I wanted the story to unfold before me from the perspectives of Generals Lee, Longstreet, and Chamberlain. So, I didn’t know what was going to happen. I knew who “won”, but I knew no details. And by this point, I was very attached to the Generals on both sides of the field. This is not to say that I supported their causes (namely slavery), but as human beings, I had grown attached to them.

It’s probably important for you to know that I am the sort of person who gets lost in a book and lives vicariously through the protagonist. It started early on for me when I read The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings. I also do the same thing with movies. This is not a voluntary exercise on my part but rather how I am wired.  I come out of a movie feeling exhilarated or depressed depending on the sort of movie I saw. For this very reason I saw each of the Lord of the Rings movies by myself in the theater because I knew I would be in no state to have conversations about where to eat after living in Middle Earth for three hours.

I was no different while I was reading The Killer Angels, which got confusing emotionally since the protagonist was constantly changing. One minute I’m General Longstreet, the next I’m shooting at General Longstreet. All the while, I’m not down with slavery. Confusing.

So, it came down to my last day of The Killer Angels and the last day of the battle. I could sense the end was near. Neither side could hold out much longer. Losses on both sides were great, and the soldiers were weary. Some of the men had marched all night, fought all day, and were preparing to fight again. Weary. Disheartened. No, this battle wouldn’t last much longer. Plus, there weren’t many pages left.

I had resisted the urge to finish the book at home the night before. I was saving it for The Lull.  The Battle of the Lull will live on in my memory for years to come. As the weary Union braced to repel one final attack atop Little Round Top and the Confederate soldiers lined up to race across Cemetery Ridge in waves, I stood my ground behind the cash register, ready for any banker or underwriter who may need coffee at 10:30 in the morning.

The Union cannons were lined up with what little ammunition was left, the wounded far behind the lines. The overly formal ,”Good luck out there” had been exchanged among the Generals, knowing that it may be the last time they spoke to one another in this life. I had two extra pots of coffee brewed for an unforeseen rush. All was in place.

As the first wave of Confederates filed out across the field, not yet in sight of the Union battery, I could see the enemy in the distance—ascending the escalator.  I sized my foe up quickly. Woman, late thirties, business casual.  This is no stranger from off the street who happened upon Petite Provence. She works here. In this building. She is highly trained and has done this many times before.

You can always tell a vet by the way they carry themselves. Confident, head high but not too high, slow, even pace toward the register. She did not look at the menu on the wall or survey the pastry case—she knew exactly what she had come for. My guess was coffee. I braced myself, typing in the manager code and arming the register for whatever transaction was necessary.

As the gap between the businesswoman and me closed, she gazed straight at me and gave me a knowing smile, as if to say, “Bring it on, barista.” There was only one question now—What size of coffee was she going to order?

My guess was a small. She was rather petite herself, and plus it was already 10:30am. This only needed to get her through to lunch when she could get reinforcement.

“Hey there.” (That’s almost always how I greet them.)

“Hey, how’s it going?”

“Not bad.”  (Alright, missy, let’s keep this short and to the point.)

“Pretty slow this morning?” (Was she taunting me? Did she really just say that? She thinks I’m inexperienced. Calm down, Nicks. Don’t let her get the best of you. Stay focused. )

“Well, we had a rush about an hour ago, but I’ve kind of hit a lull now.”  (I can’t hide the fact that there are no other customers, but I’ve got to let her know that I’m experienced. This is not my first transaction. Enough small talk. Let’s do this.)

“What can I get for you?”

“I’m just going to get a small coffee…”
(I knew it! My finger was already on the button. Bam!)
“…and I’ll also get a blueberry muffin.”

(I was blindsided. I didn’t see the muffin coming. Why wasn’t I ready for that? Oldest trick in the book. She didn’t need to look in the pastry case because she’s a regular. She already knew what pastry she wanted. She does not care about spoiling her appetite. She’s going straight for the muffin. A muffin! Coffee I can handle because it’s self-serve. I don’t even have to hand her the cup. But for a muffin, I’ve got to get tongs, open the pastry case, tong the muffin, and then get it into an itty-bitty bag without touching the muffin. If there were another customer behind her, this could slow me down enough that I wouldn’t have time to finish my book before the lunch rush. These seemingly small events are what win or lose the battle. Not only the battle—the WHOLE WAR!)

“Anything else? “

“Nope that’s it.”

She paid me and then retreated back to her office. She had fought bravely, but she was unable to get through my dense line of coffee and pastries. I knew she would be back, though. Maybe next shift. Maybe next week. Who knows, next time she may try to flank me with some complicated latte order. For now I would regroup and see to my pastries. I had to make sure they were ready for the imminent next wave.

And so began the Battle of the Lull.

TO BE CONTINUED