Tim Hortons Tales #2,356

You've gotta hand it to Tim Horton's. Since there is such a cross section of people that frequent it, the joint is like a bubbling cauldron of awkwardness and misadventure.

Today's tale is subtle, but a classic. As I was in line this morning, there were three or four people waiting for their bagels or breakfast sandwiches to be made. At the best of times this can be a chaotic ritual, given how busy T-Ho's gets.

So there was this one guy who looked like he just rolled out of bed from a trashcan. I'd say he was about 45, with greasy unkempt hair, dirty oily hands, rough and ready clothing and a wild-eyed look about him. Next to him was this pretty young blonde woman about 25. The server announces that some kind of bagel is ready and the dirty dude takes his sandwich, but he stays since he's clearly waiting for another item. The server then brings up a couple of more items, none of which belong to the blonde woman. At this point, it's become clear that there's been some confusion - the young woman's sandwich is MIA. She proceeds to enquire about the fate of her breakfast, and the server says she's already brought that particular item out....which is when it became clear that Fleabag McGee mistook her bagel for his, and has had his greasy mitts all over it for about a minute.

I look at the young woman the instant she realizes what's what. She was trying to be polite, but for a split second she flashed a look of  deep, deep disappointment, only to be replaced by disgust when the guy handed the sandwich back to her.

In the end, at least the woman can tell the story about the day she went for breakfast at Tim Horton's, patiently waited in line for ten minutes, paid for it and as she walked out the door, threw it directly into the trash.
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Encounter at Fowlpoint

Perhaps it's just me, but I feel rather uncomfortable in supermarkets when they have in store demonstrators giving out tiny morsels of food.

Recently I was in one on a Sunday morning just before noon. There weren't many people about (which is why I decided to go that early), and as I came around a corner with my cart I see one of these guys at his little booth.  His easy bake oven is all fired up, cooking some type of chicken slathered in some sauce. Since there's nobody else around he immediately looks at me as I turn the corner and our eyes lock. Although he's feigning enthusiasm, in reality he just wants to give out all his goddamn chicken so he can go home to watch the Packers game. But I can't do it.  I just had a bowl of Shreddies and I really don't feel like eating glazed chicken. Yet strangely, I feel all committed now.

Part of me wants to dart down the nearest aisle to escape the situation, but another part of me wants to help the poor guy out by letting him do this thing. After all, my Sunday morning started about 9am, relaxing with coffee and reading the news. His probably started about two hours earlier than mine where he woke up thinking: Jesus Christ I've got to go hand out glazed chicken today.  

So, I decide to make a compromise. I continue past his booth and smile, at least acknowledging the guy. I get about halfway and then I hear the pitch. I can tell I'm his first of the day. He stumbles with his script and refers to his notes. But I feel for the fella. I've had similar gigs..in fact I've had much worse gigs.

Thanks to my university education, I'm wearing a bowtie in a supermarket. 

Anyway, I tell him no thanks, but I still feel the need to give him a reason. Sort of like when a hobo asks you for change. You tell him you don't have any, but you both know that's a lie. But I'm honest. I tell him I just had some Shreddies, with blueberries, hoping that will convey the idea that all that business just wouldn't mix with chicken. I still feel a little bad so I make a weak attempt at comedy. I ask him if I can take some to go. You know, instead of a tiny bit in a crappy paper cup, maybe he can cook me a whole chicken breast and wrap it up so I can have it for lunch tomorrow. As is often the case in these situations, he clearly didn't realize I was joking and frowned at my suggestion.

I was exhausted by this point. Instead of explaining I was kidding, I thought it was best to just walk away. I stopped by aisle 14 for swiffers. Then over to aisle 20 for cat litter. When it was all over, I walked out of that supermarket on that crisp Sunday morning, and never looked back at him once.