I was feeling kind of blue – you know, sorry for myself – this past rainy Saturday. My friend Joe wasn’t working at the convenience center, and the two other Murphy friends I’ve made so far had other plans (which everybody knows is code for I have a better offer than spending time with you).
So it was in this type of pity-party pout that I decided to check out the new ice cream shop in town called Mimo’s Ice Cream & Twisted Treats. I heard rumors that they serve alcohol in their ice cream, which cheered me up immensely.
I arrived just before 1 o’clock to find the doors closed and the shop dark, which required a stern pep talk to myself that, no, the world was not against me, but rather Murphy shops open at odd hours. It’s just how they do things here.
I was already familiar with the Murphy business district’s penchant for opening later in the day, so if you’re an early riser like me it’s best to buck up. The same principle applies if you want to shop on Mondays. I haven’t yet figured out the secret meeting place where all the town folks go on Mondays, but sooner or later somebody is going to slip and reveal the location and passcode for where all the cool kids hang out that day, and won’t they be surprised when I show up in my fanciest party dress.
Mimo’s opened at 1 p.m. so they had committed no foul against me as I had arrived at 12:45. A little crowd formed around the door by the time a perky girl with shiny black hair and hipster glasses opened the shop and, surprisingly, greeted each person in line by name. Excepting me, of course as this was my first time making her acquaintance.
Despite the line, she moved in the slow way that confident people move. She had obviously learned the magic of her generous smile, knowing it would calm the anxious, sugar-addicted people in line, begging her to hurry up with their squinty, judgmental eyes.
“Hi, Mr. Lee,” she said to the man in front of me. Mr. Lee had come with two friends who stood looking over the menu board as if held the secrets to life. The board was quite simple to interpret with its two columns headed “Premium” and the other “Twisted.”
It was the twisted side I had come for-serve me alcohol please, but Mr. Lee’s friends were less certain. They seemed afraid to make any kind of commitment. The shining Miss Raylynn coaxed them patiently, offering encouragement when needed.
The woman finally decided on the English Toffee, but then came the agonizing decision of if she would get it in the waffle cone or a milkshake. While she puzzled over these perplexing options, two little boys ran in with energy that matched Raylynn’s.
They took turns hopping at the little gate that opened onto Raylynn’s side. It was just a touch too high for them, so they had to keep jumping, trying to lift the hook from its fastener. About the time English Toffee decided definitively on the waffle cone, the boys successfully unlatched the gate.
By now there were several people in line behind me, and I was feeling the pressure that people like me feel for others who we think should feel pressure. Not so with Raylynn. She smiled to the people in line behind me, “Hi Angel! Have you decided on what you’re going to get today?”
She asked this as she glided over to the gate to relock it. She looked down at the clever boys and said gently, “Vincent, I’ll get you and Luke your Oreo Crunch cup in just a minute, OK?” Her tone and manner settled upon them like fairy dust as they calmly backed away and shared the big green chair in the corner.
The boy’s mother came running in, and she also got a personalized greeting from the angel behind the counter.
“Hey, Leslie, I just told the boys that I would get their ice cream in a minute,” she said. Leslie smiled back, and finally it was my turn. But it actually wasn’t my turn. Apparently, two adorable boys sharing a giant chair get preferential treatment.
I already knew I was ordering the Banana Foster (with banana liqueur) in a milkshake, but the friendly Raylynn was busy filling two little cups of Oreo Crunch for the boys. When they approached the gate, lifting their little arms up for the treat, I suddenly felt like the Grinch come to town with my bad attitude and secret judgments about people’s public behavior.
When I finally walked out of the shop slurping my creamy, thick Banana Foster milkshake, Mr. Lee and his friends waved to me. “Enjoy your ice cream,” they said happily. I tipped my cup in response, and walked away fully intending to do just that.