"Hey, Space Monkey," Parker greeted me. For the first time ever, the nickname didn't make me giggle. "Bad day?"
"The Joker called me Space Monkey last night. I'm a little freaked." As we talked, I wrote down his order without being told: the Two Entrée Special with Mongolian Beef and Sweet and Sour Chicken, fried rice, and iced tea. My customers are so predictable.
Well, maybe not all of them. A shrill giggle pulled my attention over to Harley and Ivy, sitting together in the far corner. The few other customers brave enough to stick around were sitting as far away from the pair as humanly possible.
I had almost done something incredibly stupid when I took Harley's order.
I asked her the same question that I ask every time I take any order: "Do you want steamed or fried rice?"
And the answer she gave me was the one I get all too often, mostly from sorority girls and other forms of nearly-sentient life: "White rice."
Everyone thinks I'm such a nice person. I'm not. White rice has shown me that I'm not very nice at all. You see, the words "white rice" have been enough to induce in me fantasies of the most brutal forms of torture involving broom handles, swiss army knives, and cayenne pepper, among other things.
Steamed rice and fried rice are both white rice. They! Are! Both! White! Rice! Steamed rice is white rice that has been steamed! Fried rice is white rice that has been fried! They are both white rice! For the love of all that is shiny, if white rice were a separate choice, I would smegging well offer it as a separate choice, wouldn't I?
I almost told her that. I shudder to think what would have happened to me if I had let myself vent.
Fortunately, I'm always a professional.
I was making Parker's tea when another new customer came in. He was a pretty average-looking guy, dressed in street clothes, which would have made me feel better except that Harley was in street clothes, too. For all I knew, I was about to gain another supervillain stalker.
How's that for fast-acting paranoia?
"Good morning," I said. "Can I help you?"
"Can you?" He smirked. I wished, not for the first time, that I had the authority to smack assholes around without losing my job.
"How about Kung Pao Beef? That's always good." He looked adorably amused. I took that as a yes. "Do you want steamed or fried rice?"
"Yes."
If I had been holding a pencil, I would have snapped it then. There's only one answer I hate worse than "white rice."
"That was not a yes or no question, sir," I said with my biggest smile ever. Parker took one look at me and found something to do on the other side of the room.
"But yes is an answer, isn't it?"
"How…about…fried…rice?" I said sweetly. I had more questions to ask him, but I decided to just answer them myself. I wouldn't normally do that, but I was not having a good day. "Your total is $5.88." He handed me a credit card. "Can I see your ID?" I asked automatically. He just looked at me, amused. "Nothing personal. I have to ask everyone, Mr…" I read the name on the credit card: Katherine Kane. "Okay, who are you?" Then I realized the point of the question and answer routine. "The Riddler."
"Very good. And you're the Space Monkey." I dug my fingernails into my palm.
"What do you want?" (I felt a little safer antagonizing him. He didn't seem like the type to fly off the deep end just because a cashier was a little rude.)
"I want some of your famous Kung Pao Beef."
"Did the Joker tell you to come here?" I demanded.
"You told him to tell his friends. He told everyone he knows." I felt the floor drop out from under me. "You're going to be seeing a lot of new faces around here."
"Oh, super. Your total is still $5.88." He looked pointedly at the stolen credit card he had given me. I waited.
"Oh, fine. Spoilsport." He paid cash.