It can be said that humanity, though divided by race, religion, gender and unfinished roadways, has a common thread that ties all beings into the Great Circle of Life. And the striking commonality is this: food.
Like many blue-collar Americans, I'm shackled every morning to a cash register at a fast food restaurant, never mind the name. Let's just say that it involves peddling Canadian donuts to the North Buffalo population.
In my experience with exchanging currency, scraping vegetable cream cheese off of plates and dealing with The People while they fussily await their much-needed morning caffeine, I've come to notice that there is a diverse, multicultural community thriving under the very roof of the humble establishment.
People of all denominations, creeds and political affiliations loyally bestow their patronage every morning, licking their chops at the exciting promise of a fresh danish or croissant. Those who can barely speak English somehow manage to express the precise consistency and heat of butter desired on each individual muffin.
A Harley Davidson biker with a sagging pornographic Flintstones tattoo strode in one day and gruffly placed his order.
"Large black coffee," he said while ogling the pastry racks, "and a vanilla dip donut with sprinkles...for my kid."
Later I walked outside and saw him merrily licking the sprinkles between drags on a cigarette.
Sometimes someone from The Old Country will make their way through the front doors, bringing with them the scent of spicy perfumes and authentic Old Country dirt that they're keeping as a nostalgic token. These are the people who, through a very hush-hush transaction, will ask for the senior discount and pay in dimes.
There are the occasional Bohemian couples who saunter in wearing hand-knit scarves and some sort of postmodern nerd glasses and will order something non-existent, like a Turbolaxative Juju Caramel Latte. I then kindly direct them to a cup of hot chocolate.
The only change they ever seem to have on them is a pocketful of gold dollar coins (and the occasional pirate doubloon). I rarely see a hay penny pass through my hands, much less a gold dollar. It makes me want to go to a Bohemian Art Caf?(c) and pay in Chuck-E-Cheese tokens.
One time a genuine Canadian somehow managed to stumble their way across the border and up to the counter to chuckle to the employees, "Crazy weather we've been havin', eh?"
She was the friendly type who wears Christmas vests in spring and has a walletful of cats in matching dresses. She ordered three Canadian Maples.
The daily patrons have their own quirks as well. Some like to add their own cream and sugar (in keeping with the Premack principle). Others get surprisingly touchy when two different types of baked goods are placed in the same bag (I like to call them Bush Bagel and Kerry Croissant).
At this point you can tell it is still early in the morning, because the boss somehow manages to say through the drive-through window to patrons, "Hi, welcome to McDonald's / Hi, welcome to Arby's / Hi, welcome to Hooters, may I take your order?"
Yuppies and students in scrubs continue to file in with a paper folded under one arm, requesting coffees with half decaf and one sweetener. Construction men and paint-splotched house painters jostle in together and slam a hearty mug onto the counter, joking and hitting each other as they ask for a refill with four creams and seven sugars.
It's amazing to watch the different lives and stories file in and out of the doors, as I serve as some sort of celestial food service caterer. People at all stages of life, with entirely different views and concepts of reality all manage to appreciate a common goal in this thriving, miniature metropolis.
World leaders should sit down together and eat Timbits more often.
