| | sometimes a frozen yogurt is called a "fro-yo" Today was a banner day at the shop, in which a great many things were scooped. One gentleman, however, ordered a frozen yogurt. It is not scooped but rather forced through a complicated and frightening machinery, one that takes three hours to clean, as I did this morning.
The gentleman entered the shop with his nose turned up. "It smells like a sewer out there!" he exclaimed. But this is Montgomery County, I thought, we have exported all bad smells to Virginia. "It smells like ass!" the man continued.
I sprinted from behind the counter and out the door, to where the construction workers and stroller-pushing mothers were making their daily progression. As I took whiffs of the putrid air, an emo boy walked past the store. Bleached-blonde hair, studded belt, confused smile: a fine specimen, increasingly rare and rarer still on the clean streets of Rockville.
"Yes!" I yelled. "This is not a good smell!"
The emo boy stared at me, perhaps alarmed that the smell of ass would bring tears to his eyes. (Or was he comforted?) I returned to the store; as the emo boy continued to stare at me through the windows which lined every inch not already covered in ice cream, I made the gentleman a frozen yogurt, which he enjoyed thoroughly.
In time, I forgot that smell, but I remembered the look of horror on the emo boy's face, and the glint of the sun in his belt's studs, as I recalled the story to anyone there being paid an hourly wage to hear it. There are times, I realize, when God makes the street smell like ass, but only so you are impelled to go out and smell it, thus stumbling upon the other glories of His creation.
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| | Posted 6/27/2007 1:04 AM - 0 comments
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