For
the past two summers I have had the pleasure of working at a snowball
stand. I get paid minimum wage
(plus tips) to read, listen to music, eat free snowballs, and occasionally
serve a few customers. Over this
time, I have truly come to appreciate the subtleties of the famous Baltimore
dessert.
For
a long time I was a casual snowball fan.
I stuck to my usual skylite, occasionally branching out to
strawberry, watermelon, or—perhaps my favorite—cola flavored. I never even considered trying egg
custard or marshmallow on my snowball.
But,
as an official snowball stand employee, it was recommended that I try all of
the flavors. I needed to be
educated enough to make decent recommendations to customers. So I spent my first few weeks on the
job eating a lot of snowballs…after all, who can argue with free
snowballs? Raspberry, peach, and
even cotton candy were surprisingly delicious. Blood orange, peppermint, and fireball were not so
much. I even tried
chocolate—something I swore I’d never do—and threw some marshmallow on top for
good measure. Surprise, surprise,
they weren’t kidding when they said I’d been missing out for years. Soon I came up with my own specialties:
root beer float was my new favorite, consisting of root beer flavor with crème
poured on top.
Working
at a snowball stand does come with a little bit of excitement. The people you meet are always
interesting. From flustered
babysitters dealing with one too many kids, to local construction workers, you
meet all sorts of people. My
personal favorites are some of my most loyal customers. A man and a woman, probably in their
mid-forties, they always pull up in this old white pick-up truck. The first time it was just the two of
them. The guy had a lot of
difficulty ordering their snowballs, fumbling over his thoughts, and asking way
too many questions for an order that is as simple as size and flavor. My first thought was that he must be
drunk, but it was a recurring theme, and always in the middle of the day.
They
came back at least a few times a week, but each time they brought one more person in
their truck. First just the two of
them, then one of their friends, then another, until one day they showed up
with a whopping party of seven in the rusted old pickup. Finally I got the guy’s order down; he
liked a jumbo grape with marshmallow in the middle and on top, sometimes with a
dash of lemon to complement the flavor.
I was really starting to like the group when one day I finished with their orders, the truck pulled away, and I looked in my tip jar. I could’ve sworn there were a couple
more dollars in there before, but I didn’t think twice about it.
Then,
a couple days later the white truck rolled back up to the stand. The lady hopped out, but this time she
wasn’t wearing her usual smile. She
approached and began to explain how sorry she was. At first I didn’t understand, but then she pulled out my
three dollars that her husband had stolen from the jar. She apologized profusely and I thanked
her for returning my tips, promising that I wasn’t angry. After that I didn’t see the white truck
for a while. But a few weeks later
my friends from the pickup finally returned, and I couldn’t help but
smile. They’re welcome at my
snowball stand any day… but from now on I’ll be keeping a closer eye on my
tips.
No comments:
Post a Comment