Freezing in Tucson

It was the one day of the year when the people of Tucson whispered “winter is coming” and dug in their closets to find their one dust-covered windbreaker.

Oh my god, the high might not hit 65. The lady next to me at lunch was “freezing.”

We were at Beyond Bread sitting in a glass-enclosed terrarium of a patio.  I don’t know popsicle lady.  She just picked the table next to me.

There was a dude sitting outside in the open air in shorts and a T-shirt.  He ain’t cold.

The popsicle was probably 40-to-50-years old — definitely one of those skinny fucks who count their carbs — but she was not frail.

thick-coat-in officeShe was covered ears to toes in 4 layers of clothes. She sat with her hands folded and acting like she was fighting off frostbite.

There were two doors left open to the terrarium, so the wait staff could carry food in and out.

“I wanted to be inside,” the popsicle nagged at her friend.

“It was full,” the friend said.

There were open tables for two inside. These two were at a table for 4 and filling it with their purses and phones, and bags and extra shit. They were spread out like Persian princes flying first class.  They never would have squeezed into a table for two.

Popsicle lady kept getting up and closing the last two open doors.  Everybody who wandered into the terrarium pushed them open and the doors stayed open.  Probably a reason for that design…

With each visitor, the popsicle loudly sighed, got up and closed both doors.

The waitress balanced two bowls of soup for the popsicle’s table — one in each hand — when she approached the door.

I started to get up, but the waitress lifted one foot like the Karate Kid doing the “Crane” and turned the door handle with her toe — before I could get out of my chair. (Yeah, yeah fuck you, I’m officially old.  I was moving as fast as I could.)

“We keep the doors open, so we don’t have to pull it open with our feet,” the waitress said to me loud enough for the popsicle to hear.

As soon as she left, the popsicle got up and closed the doors.

That’s right — your own comfort is much more important than those who carry your lunch. Why not make them balance on one foot like a fucking super hero so they can enter through the last door you closed?  With that kind of stature, you must drive a Dodge Stratus…

I didn’t say any of that.  I didn’t say a thing. I finished my last bite, got up and propped opened both doors.

Then I walked inside, refilled my drink.  When I walked back out, both doors were closed again. The popsicle was sitting back down.

I propped both doors open again.  Oops forgot my napkin.  Picked it off the table and walked inside to throw it out.

I walked back out. Good thing both doors were still open.  There were about 50 napkins left in the holder, and I was going to go through every fucking one before I left with the doors closed.

Fuck you popsicle.  It was 65-degrees.  You ain’t that cold.

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