When I was in college, I worked part-time in a family-owned coffee-roasting and gourmet food store. We had loyal customers, who appreciated the quality of the merchandise and the low prices. I made it a point to greet people warmly, as they entered the shop. It became my mission to get the cranky ones to smile when they saw me. Sometimes it took several months, but in the end I always prevailed. Our regulars opened up to me. I often felt like the worldly bartender Miss Kitty in the long-running western television drama series Gunsmoke, as the caffeine-consuming clientele sidled up to the counter to chat me up or tell me their troubles.

Out of the hundreds of people I encountered during my shift, there were a couple of dozen for whom I felt some real connection. In time, I went to my share of weddings and funerals, and even an ordination. It is my good fortune that, decades later, I still have some cherished friends from those days. But the truth is, a lot of the customers were simply unpleasant. I often felt awkward, when I ran into one of them somewhere in the community. Being friendly was part of my job description. It could be a strain, but I respected by boss enough to maintain the facade when I was off the clock. Before long, I decided to minimize the risk of running into these disagreeable folks by spending my leisure time in the neighboring towns. 

One night, my boyfriend and I had gone out to dinner at a Thai restaurant in the little village to the north. When we had finished, I watched in awe as the waiter cleared the dishes from the table. He carefully stacked the small dishes on a large one, balanced the loaded plate on his forearm, then picked up the teapot and two glasses in his hands. I marveled at how relaxed he seemed, as he walked away to deposit his load in the kitchen. There is no way I would have the temerity to try to reproduce his feat. 

Business was brisk at the store the next day. While the owner prepared food orders in the back of the shop, I was alone at the front, pouring coffee, weighing beans, ringing up sales. I had just poured a cup of coffee for a dark-haired, 50-something woman, who was a regular customer, then began blending five pounds of coffee for the owner of a Middle Eastern restaurant.

“The half-and-half is empty,” said the woman.

I looked up to see if my boss could get it, but he was pushing a carbon-steel blade through a large wedge of Gruyère. As he worked, a stocky woman in an overcoat was leaning towards him, prattling about the fondue she was planning to make that evening.

“Okay,” I replied. I looked sheepishly at the man I was waiting on. “I’ll be right back.”

He shrugged. “It’s okay.”

The half-and-half was in a refrigerator in a storage room behind the public area of the store. As I was reaching inside to grab a carton, I figured I would also get a bundle of napkins and a couple of stacks of disposable cups. Since we were short-staffed that day, I might not get another chance. The rack of Lindt chocolate bars also needed refilling. The boxes of chocolate were right next to the refrigerator, so I picked up a couple of them. A vision of the waiter from the night before, confidently carrying all of those dishes, flashed through my brain. I knew I would never try such a stunt with anything breakable, but as I approached the cash register, I felt some pride in myself for the balancing act I was performing. 

“That’s a lazy man’s load,” snapped the dark-haired woman.

Startled, I set everything down on the counter. “What?”

“That’s a lazy man’s load,” she repeated.

I opened the carton of half-and-half and handed it to her. “I was being efficient,” I said, defensively.

She looked at me sternly. “How efficient would it have been if you dropped something?” she asked.

But I didn’t, I thought. Arguments to bolster my position occurred to me, but in the end, I nodded. “You’ve got a point.”

Even now, 40-years later, when I sling grocery bags over my shoulders and juggle one or two more in each hand to get everything from my car to the house in one trip, or I cradle my laptop, a phone, and a writing pad against my chest, while carrying a cup of hot tea in my free hand, that woman’s words echo in my mind. She was wise, of course. But despite the fact that, from that day, I became more moderate in determining the loads I would carry, I continue to push the limits.