Some people are just so picky

 “We should really get started on those cakes,” my manager told me, “ the customer will be here to pick it up at 8.” It was 3:00 pm on a scorching August day.

I was lazy.  “I’ll get started soon,” I procrastinated, “we’ve got lots of time.”

He nodded. He wanted to do them as much as I did; not at all. 

We hit a dead area around 4. With a sigh, I pulled out the cake templates and filled them with half chocolate mud puddle and half moose tracks, the most popular combination. I bent down near the counter with our metal spatula, smoothing the melting ice cream into a cake-like shape. Before it melted completely, I threw it back in the freezer. I’d finish it later. 

At 5, the shift changed, one of my favourite coworkers skipped through the door with her uniform in her backpack and a mood that was clearly not set on working. We’ll call her Taylor. Yet who am I to argue against peoples’ moods? An ice cream girl, that’s who.

6:00 rolled around and I turned back to the cake I’d begun. I smeared on the Oreo crust mixed with vanilla soft serve and did the same for the second cake of the day, set to be picked up an hour after the first. Taylor stood idly by and ceremoniously placed a skittle in the centre of the crust. “The person receiving this skittle shall be granted many miracles,” she said, rounding out her workerly contribution for the day. I laughed, smoothing the oreo around the red skittle, agreeing that its benefactor would be a lucky person indeed. The cakes were looking peckish again and I again placed them in the freezer and went to help the other customers. 

By 7:00, my manager grew anxious, “We should really finish those cakes,” he said. In agreement, Taylor jogged to the freezer and pulled out the closest one. I helped her flip it over onto a cake plate and she and I set to work on its decorations.

The maple walnut ice cream of the cake was complimented with delicate bands of whipped cream and skor pieces scattered about its landscape. We continued working, touching up the whipped cream here and there, impressing ourselves with the teamwork. Earlier than expected, the customer arrived.

She planted herself on a chair in the sitting area when Taylor professionally let her know that we were almost done. Now in a hurry, we put the cake in its clear box. I lifted it to the counter.

The customer, dressed in a red dress and bold sunglasses marched up to survey our work. “This is not what I ordered,” she said. “I asked for moose tracks and peanut butter.” 

I withheld my gasp of panic, realizing that we’d switched the two cakes and finished the one due to be picked up later instead of the one I’d started. Apologizing profusely, Taylor flew to the back freezer where it was stored and whipped the cake onto the counter. More experienced than I, she grabbed the whipped cream and trussied up the cake like nobody’s business as the customer sat herself down once more.

Seeing the cake order taped to the wall, I saw it was supposed to have a message written on it in red icing, “Happy birthday Brad!” I raced to the fridge to toss Taylor the writing materials. As she wrote, I tossed the skor bits haphazardly on the cake.

In record time, the cake was finished. Taylor retrieved the second box to put it in and now threw it up again on the counter for the customer to see. She again approached the register, her face showing a mix of impatience and dissatisfaction. Immediately, she grimaced.

“I’m sorry, there’s just no way I can take this cake. It looks terrible.”

Upon her blatant confession of honesty, I surveyed the cake again and saw that she was right. The cake was melting before our eyes, leaving fudge riddled and peanut butter cups still standing at the top while the vanilla section of the moose tracks dripped from the sides, taking towers of whipped cream with it. “I’m so sorry,” I began, but my manager, coming to our rescue appeared from the back room to rescue us.

Viewing the cake from eyes even more critical than my own, his expression drooped. “I’m sorry about this ma’am, I won’t charge you for that.

She raised her brows, not taking her eyes off the melting fiasco in front of us. “I can’t even take this,” she said, “His name is Brian, not Brad.”

My eyes nearly popped from my skull, realizing our blatant failure. From my peripheral vision, I caught sight of the cake order to see that she was right. She left the store shaking her head. Taylor soberly lifted both cakes, now melted messes, from the counter and placed them gingerly back in the freezer.

“We failed,” I said.

Her disappointed nod confirmed my statement.

With that, we slid down the freezer to the colder floor to wallow in our shame.

“I don’t know why she couldn’t have just pretended his name was Brad,” I sighed.

Some people are just so picky.