Barsitas

I call them barsitas, because that's what they are on the schedule that nobody's ever bothered to look over for typos. In the five years I've worked there, I've never mentioned it. No one else has noticed. Barsitas they are called, thus barsitas they are, and likely there is a philosophy in there regarding the naming of a thing that will forever go unexplored. The two working tonight had their backs to me and were chattering happily as they did the dishes. There was no way they could have heard my approach, and I had a moment to perfect my most-obnoxious-customer voice.

"HEY, how long I gotta wait for SERVICE here?!" I finally demanded, and they whirled.

After a moment of "what bitch talks to us like that?", they recognized me and one thrust her arms to the heavens, hollering, "BASSSSSSSSSS-KIT-BAAAAALLLLLLL!" in tones decidedly joyous.

"Basketball," I replied cautiously, lest it be some new barsita rite that I dare not question or disturb. All evidence to the contrary aside, I tread lightly with the barsitas of Barnes and Noble.

They're armed.

"How long were you waiting?" Maggie asked.
"I just walked up."
"What-do-you-WANT-Susie-what-do-you-WANT," asked Nijae, jittering.
"Oh, nothing, I just wanted to say hi."
"Jerk."
"YEAH YER A JERK YOU DON'T GET TO HAVE ANY BASKETBALL PLAYERS."
"Don't mind her," said Nijae's partner in crime. "She's had her first taste of coffee ever."
I went all wide-eyed and mystified. "Ever? Ever-ever?"
"SUSIE SUSIE COFFEE IS THE BEST AND I REALLY LIKE BASKETBALL PLAYERS."
"Ever. Isn't she adorable."
"Isn't the word I'd use."
"I LOVE BASKETBALL PLAYERS," announced the coffee-rookie, wilderness edging her smile. "I'm gonna marry one."
"Excellent," I agreed immediately. "I will marry Jasper Fforde."
"But-you're-already-maaaaarried..."
I spread my hands. "So's he."
"YOU'RE GANGSTER," she declared me, and I side-eyed Maggie.
 "Coffee, you say."
"Yup."
"Just coffee?"
"Yup."
Together, we watched her bounce around the cafe, chattering about basketball players and their butts. "Do you know," I said finally, in tones of revelation, "I don't think I've ever been the straight man to someone else's hyperactivity before."
"YOU'RE NOT STRAIGHT YOU'RE GANNNNGSTAAAAAA."
I squinted. "...Maggie, how much coffee has she had."
"Uhhhh." She calculated. "Three cups?"
"Ah." That, at least, explained it.

It was the sort of conversation that I've never been on the receiving end of; ordinarily I'm the shouty one bouncing around the periphery of things making odd observations and improbable demands. It was ever-so-slightly surreal, truth be told, and left me feeling a bit old. Nineteen-year-olds can scamper and leap without having to worry about their backs going out, and they certainly aren't judged for it. Thirty-year-olds, on the other hand...

Christopher says I can't get away with the level of scruff I used to, and I'm sad to say I agree. Danny Glover and I: too old for this shit.

However...

"Hey, Nijae, y'ever have a blackeye?"
"A WHAT A WHAT."
"Coffee...mixed with espresso."
"Susie I'm not-"
"WHAT."
"-I'm not serving her-"
"WHAT."
"-that-"
"GIMME."

I regarded the squealing tangle of limbs for a moment, then turned and strolled back to the bookfloor where I belonged, leaving the barsitas to their shenanigans.

Nobody ever said anything about not passing the torch.