There is a little cafe, not too far from my work that makes boba tea. Since I love the shiz outta some Honeydew Boba, I go in every couple of weeks for a fix.
It’s an earthy-type place, with hookahs, odd beers, local art for sale, vegan-friendly, cafe seating outside, etc. Whenever I visit, I believe that all of the staff has just finished or are currently taking puffs on the wacky tabaccy. I came to this conclusion from mental note of their Matrix-like slow azz movements / love of eating sandwiches while working. Also upon the fact that they are always out of whatever you want on their menu. That spells “munchies” to me.
Anyhow, on this particular visit, I noticed there was a giant warning note posted to the door:
NO HOOKAHS ALLOWED OUTSIDE.
I thought: “daaaamn, Gina – someone must have stolen one or something… NOW WHERE’S MY EFFIN’ HONEYDEW?!” Then hearts flew out of my eyes and I floated into the restaurant by a smell stream of honeydew fragrance. When I got inside, I noticed there was a chick cop, in the entire tan-azz cop getup, eating a sandwich in the corner. Cops make me nervous. So it’s like I have a spidey sense when they are located within 10 yards of me and can’t relax about it. I think this fear probably stems from watching too much Cops and being black… on the inside, but I digress.
After she (side note: Do you still call them “she’s” if they’re a bad-azz cop? I think there should be a new word invented so that I don’t picture girl cops slap fighting someone to death or having to throw someone a gun only to have it land 1 foot in front of them and firing off some rounds upon impact.) finished eating. She checked all of her velcroed-on cop uniform things in a macarena like gesture fest and walked up to the counter, where I was seated and Rosebud was making my sweet sweet honeydew boba tea. (MMMmmm I can’t wait to put you inside me boba, Ima marry yeeeewwwww.)
The “sh-op” (she-cop) says: “So I noticed your sign… *points to sign on door* you gotta problem with the hookers, eh?” (You’re reading that right, “hookers.”)
“Huh? Oh yeah, a bad problem. The manager says they can’t be outside anymore.”
“How many would you say you have out there on a given night?”
“Well we have a good 15 left, but he’s been keeping them in the back storage room for now, so no body can see them and be tempted to break in.”
“WHAT? There’s 15 of them here?!”
“Yep we got all different kinds, from all around the world. Problem is, when he lets them go outside someone always runs away with one – then we don’t have any for the paying customers. So if they want anything to do with the hookahs, they have to do it inside now.”
*sh-op puts her hand on hip gun.
“SHOW ME THESE HOOKERS, NOW!” Sh-op’s voice was elevated and I almost pissed myself.
“It’s pronounced hook-ahs, hook-AHS… not hookers.”
“SHOW ME YOUR HOOK-AHRS! Do you know that’s illegal, hookahr trafficking???!!!”
“Hookahs? No they’re not – if you’re not using them for pot.”
*pulls down broken hookah off of cabinet* “These are just tobacco hookahs. Just normal hookahs, you buy a flavor and then put it in and smoke it. It’s just regular tobacco.”
“Oooh… er… good day.” *sh-op abruptly walks out.
When the girl handed me my tea I said: “You know she thought you meant you had 15 dead hookers stacked up back there by the pickles, right?”
“Oh my gosh, I totally thought she was getting way more upset than she should have been. Whoa man, whoa that was a total close one. I’m gonna have to sit down and process this…” *bites a sandwich and stares at hand*