When I got to work the other morning, Benito, the owner, was sitting on a stool behind one of the work trucks, chomping on an unlit cigar.
As I approached the shop carrying my lunchbox, I peered over his shoulder, trying to see what he was doing.
It looked like he was sticking letters to the tailgate.
“What are you doing, Benito?” I asked.
“I’m working,” he said, not turning around. “And you should be doing the same. I’m not paying you to loaf!”
“But I just got here,” I said. “I haven’t even clocked in yet.”
“Then go clock in!”
“But I was going to grab some coffee first. I only got one cup this morning. Is there any in the shop?”
“I wouldn’t drink the coffee in the shop,” Benito said.
“Then what’s that?” I asked, pointing to the cup beside his stool.
“Starbucks. I bring it from home.”
“Why are you drinking Starbucks when we have coffee in the shop?”
“Per carita! Because the coffee in the shop is mud! I shouldn’t have to explain these things to such a obstinate imbecile!”
“The coffee’s cheap, but it’s not mud,” I said. “Who made it?”
“You did!” he said, yelling. “Remember? Three days ago!”
“On second thought,” I said, “maybe Crew Leader Carl will let me stop at Starbucks.”