I try to be patient with the gangster teenage boys that darken the doorstep of the ice cream shop. Really, I do. Usually I am successful. They get their ice cream, they pay, they leave and that's that. The odd time, however, I take hold of an opportunity to exercise the authority that my ice cream scoop gives me.
It was a bit of an optical illusion when the group of them came in. There were four of them, all stocky with brown hair buzzed off and boldly colored V-necks. The only difference was their heights; they ranged from very short to very tall. Crowded around the freezers, I had a hard time focussing on any one of them.
The leader of the pack, who also appeared to be the shortest, ordered first. He asked for a medium Cookies and Cream in a dish. I swung the tub out of the freezer and grabbed a scoop with my other hand. With my back to them, I scooped an ordinary medium heeping with ice cream. As soon as I turned back and set it on the counter with a spoon sticking out of the mass, another one of the boy's mouth opened in exclamation, "Holy f***, that's huge!" he yelled.
"Watch your language, please." I warned. Taken aback, the boy squinted his eyes and took a step back.
Don't question my authority.
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