Mint Chocolate Oi!reo

Today was quite the day.

My boyfriend broke up with me, my best friend got the stomach flu, I completely forgot about my science quarter-term that’s happening the day after tomorrow, and my usual lunch at my usual cafe was subpar, to say the least (it’s honestly strange- why was it bad today? The world may never know. Dry chicken? At Michi’s Organic Eatery? Unheard of).

Not to mention, my favorite ice cream scoop at work broke. Plus, the BEST flavor in existence froze too much and didn’t feel like scooping. I’ll be sure to tell my future kids that there has never been a worse day than the day mint oreo turned into a 28-degree Fahrenheit frozen block of delicious sweet pale green mint-flavoured cream with bits of crushed chocolate cookies and swirls of chocolate throughout. 

And the day got even worse when a customer came into the shop, ringing the little bell on the door, and leaned over the bright blue counter, asking for three scoops of the very flavor that was giving me hell. They started rummaging through their pockets for their wallet and I mentally prepared myself to say “I’m sorry, but we’re having a few issues with our batch of that flavor today. Is there anything else on the menu that I can get you?”, and give a little smile, and everything would be just fine. But of course, of course, that didn’t work out, because someone or something out there just loves making my life a living hell, especially today. Because that’s the moment when one of my coworkers decides to pipe up from the back room. As much as I love Boris for being the strange uncle presence I never had, now is definitely not the time.

“Hey, Irina, make sure it’s not too frozen, ok? I don’t want you getting injured,”

“I’ll be fine!” I call back. Curse my pride.

“Are you sure? The thing’s like, frozen solid! Although, you’re not one to chicken out, anyway, I suppose,” 

That’s the moment when the other coworker decides to pipe up from the cash register (which is strange, because he’s supposed to be out here on the serving floor, not me..?)

“Yeah, Irina, go get ‘em! Don’t be a coward now!”

Curse my competitive spirit.

After apologizing to the customer, I now mentally (and physically) prepare myself to scoop from the frozen block. Grabbing the ice cream scoop from the bowl of warmed water feels uncomfortable (my favourite one did break, after all...), and walking over to the block of minty goodness feels like a death sentence. 

“Well, this is it”, I think, “time to say goodbye to my shoulders,”

And the scooping begins.

It’s not so bad at first- the top layer comes off with less resistance than I expected, but it’s nowhere near enough to fill the scoop.

I tap out what little I can into the cup before bracing myself and digging the scoop straight into the block. Not too much resistance… maybe it isn’t as bad as I thought? Then, I try to move it. And, I try again to move it. And again. Maybe the fourth time is the charm?

The scoop just doesn’t budge.

Giving an awkward smile to the customer, I pick up the ice cream bin (Christ, those things are heavy), and plop it on the counter with a slight thud. Maybe this way, I’ll have more leverage?

I could always stop, I think. This is clearly going nowhere. It wasn’t the brightest idea to take up the challenge, but still. I don’t want to get injured trying to scoop ice cream. Imagine telling that story to the doctor!

Yeah, no.

So, instead of making the obvious (and probably safer) choice to just kindly tell the customer that I literally cannot scoop the ice cream any further because my shoulder might fall off if I do, I suck it up for the second time that day and grab the scoop with renewed force, eventually getting it to move just a little bit. And then, a little more. And even though my shoulder is burning, and the pain is slowly spreading to my back, and I can hardly feel my hands just from the sheer force required to scoop this damn ice cream into the red paper cup, I’m not gonna give up.

The whole brick of ice cream shifts in the container as I manage to extract a passable first scoop. 

“Hey, Joshua, can you come over for a sec?”

“Sure thing, Irina. What’s up?” he replies, coming up behind me.

I hear the customer shift around before I continue.

“Can you hold this down for me? I’ve got two scoops to go and-” I lower my voice to a whisper before continuing, “if I’m being honest here, I think I’m gonna tear every muscle there is in my shoulder if I have to do this alone,”

He gives a slight chuckle, then answers; “Sure thing!”

And we get back to work. 

After a lot of wiggling, some quiet cursing, one yelp of pain, two near misses, and at least six prayers, I manage to get another scoop successfully into the cup. I just hope I have enough strength for a third. 

At this point, it’s been roughly ten minutes and the customer is just standing there, mildly amused. He rocks back on his heels, pretending not to notice our struggle with the over-frozen ice cream, and I turn back to Joshua. He looks back with just a little bit of uncertainty in his eyes (which is understandable, but like I said before, I’m going through with this. I’m not gonna be the person who wimped out while scooping ice cream. Even though my shoulder really hurts and this is probably gonna end really badly). I pick up the scoop from the counter, ignoring the cramping in my hand, and get ready for the home stretch.

“Oi, Boris!” Joshua calls out before I get the chance to start scooping.

“What is it, Josh?” He pokes his head out from the back room.

“Mind giving us a hand?”

“No problem,”

And before I know it, now there are two pairs of arms supporting the ice cream bin as I desperately try to get one more scoop to end the fiasco this customer’s visit has been.

It takes a few more prayers, a few more yelps of pain, a very loud curse, the breaking of another ice cream scoop, the realization that I was in the wrong, and a thirty-second break before I make a little progress on the third scoop.

I hear the customer holding back giggles as he watches the situation unfold.

“Oi!” I exclaim, “Stop that! How about you try trying to take a scoop of a brick?”

“Sorry, sorry!” he continues laughing, trying to pull himself together (and failing).

“Tch, whatever,” 

I turn back around and look at my third scooper of the week. This one fits my hand a little better and hopefully, the ice cream will stop resisting.

It doesn’t take any prayers this time. More like an extremely hot ice cream scoop, two moderate-volume curses, three small winces, and a small pop! to get the last scoop out from the bin and into the cup.

I slump against the counter, trying to subtly cradle the entire right side of my upper body. The customer glances at me before heading to Joshua at the cash register. They talk for a minute before he leaves a tip on the counter.

He walks through the shop towards the exit and gives me another glance, a small smile, a little chuckle, mouthing of a word (his name, I suppose? Act- arti- Andon?) and a good-humoured shake of his head, all while he continues walking. And soon the little bell at the door has rung and we’re left with the oddly loud air conditioner noises and the quiet music through crackly speakers.

Joshua strides over with the cash from the counter and presses it into my palm with an odd look on his face, something like your day just got so much better, except you can’t really tell with Joshua because he always seems to be planning something.

But lo and behold, on the back of the 20 dollar bill, there’s a little note which reads “Hey Miss Ice Cream Brick, sorry for laughing at you. Maybe some coffee can make up for it? Anthony (803-924-6671)” in the messiest handwriting I’ve seen since my little brother. I look up at Joshua with what must be shock on my face because he nearly bursts out laughing.

“His number? Seriously?” 

(I mean, does anyone want to be asked out on the day that their boyfriend tells them that they “feel like you don’t take me seriously, and I’ve noticed this really hot other girl…”)

(But maybe it’s a new leaf to turn over?)

(As confused as I am, it’s nice to know that I still look hot while struggling to scoop ice cream.)

Who knows. Before I can think about it more, Boris tries to offer me water, and a break, and something else which I don’t quite catch. When I don’t accept, he returns to the back room and Joshua decides that this is a great time to offer a high-five, refraining from anything bigger (remembering the last incident in which he tried to hug me after I’d dropped an entire bin of lavender lemon ice cream on my toes, except it was a really crappy hug and I mostly just got an armful of shoulder bone when I tried to hug him back due to the weird positioning. Seriously, how can someone be bad at hugging? But anyway).

I give him a small high-five and wince immediately afterward as he walks away. 

“Y’know, you could’ve just said no,” Joshua says, straightening the chairs around the room in preparation for more customers. 

“Oi!” I whip my head over to look at him. “Fuck off!”

“Still kinda funny that you got injured scooping ice cream, though,”

“I don’t want to admit that you’re right,”

“So I am?”

“Dream on,” I roll my eyes.

“Nah but actually, are you gonna be okay? Can’t have our star ice cream scooper out for the rest of the season,” he says (with such bad acting skills that he’d probably be kicked out of an acting class and deemed a lost cause).

“Sure, sure, yeah, I’ll be fine… anyway, hey!” I plaster a smile onto my face as a new mob of customers walk in and place their orders with me. In this moment, I decide to get revenge for the prank Joshua played all the way back in May (a lovely incident that resulted in me having glitter in my clothes for months). I turn to face him with what I hope is the worst shit-eating grin he’s ever seen. 

“Hey, Joshua. They’re asking for four scoops of the mint chocolate oreo,”

And he just looked back at me with pure fear in his eyes.