A Google in Time Saves Nine

Whenever she came through the drive-thru, whoever was at the first window would sing through the speakers, “Will, your monkey girl’s here!” and then everybody wired in would howl, whistle, and generally make themselves completely obnoxious while I would try to act cool and indifferent that the current object of my obsession was heading toward my window.
“Big surprise,” I’d mutter into my headset. “It’s nearly closing time. She always comes through before we shut down.” Then, I’d focus on quick-bagging the few orders that had come in before hers.
“Keeping track, aren’t ya, Tarzan?” they’d say then.
Or it might be George of the Jungle, Curious George, or even Speedracer after that movie came out. Once, one of the old guys called me Jane something, and when nobody laughed, he changed it to Cornelius. That guy was creepy. He used to volunteer to clean out the Playplace tubes – finally, the manager let him go. It didn’t stop the monkey jokes, but they weren’t such a big deal anyway.
Except for the banana ones. They made me mad. I almost got fired for shoving Lonnie one night for shooting his mouth off about whether or not I’d given a banana to the monkey girl. He didn’t really fall into the fryer like he tried to claim. His arm got a little scorched from the heat, but it didn’t even blister. Not much anyway. And at least the manager put an end to the banana comments. And the ones about monkeys jumping on the bed. With those out of the way, then like I said, the others weren’t much of a problem anyway.
Especially not when she got to my window to pay for her order, always a grilled chicken wrap – no sauce, no tomatoes – and a diet lemonade. She always paid with a five dollar bill, and I always had her change ready before hand. I knew that she liked a lot of napkins and not a lot of ice. And I always made sure that she had her spoon and an extra mint at the bottom of her bag. I tried not to make a big deal about it, but I know that she noticed I was giving her a little extra attention. At least, I guessed that she did. She kept coming back, didn’t she? And she always smiled so prettily at me and I liked to think that the hand contact we made when we exchanged money was made a little longer than necessary on her side of the deal.
But after she pulled away with her order, I was back at everyone’s mercy until we got too busy with closing duties to say much of anything.
Up until then, though, they always piled joke after joke on me.
“Will, wave bye-bye at the little monkeys!” someone would always yell. I’d snort in disgust, but I’d always try to sneak a quick glance out across the front counter through the side windows to see her Volvo pull away. The whole back window was filled with sock monkeys of every size and color.
“Did you see her plates, Will?” people would laugh and start chanting, “MUNKY4U! MUNKY4U!” I’d just turn down the volume on my headset as low as I dared and just focus on getting the final orders out of my window. A lot of people personalize their plates, so I didn’t see the big deal. I do wish I had some police friends, though. I’m not a stalker, but you can’t really find anything out from googling a license plate number.
“As far as you leaned out there to give her that order, I’m surprised you didn’t get your headset caught on all that crap hanging from her mirror. How many monkey keychains does she have anyway?” someone asked once.
“How should I know? Do you think I counted them?” I’d grumble. But I knew she had nine counting the ones on the mirror and the one on her key in the ignition, but not counting another I’d spotted one night poking out of her open purse.
“Bet you liked her shirt, didn’t ya, Will?” or “What monkey stuff she have on tonight, Will?” were part of the usual routine after she left. I never answered them, just shrugged and kept working. They were right though. She always had on something with a monkey print or sock monkey pattern – dress, t-shirt, halter top, whatever. One hot night last week, she even had on a swimsuit with sweet little monkey faces on her… anyway, that night was the one I shoved Lonnie for saying stuff about the girl and my banana. That night was a bad one.
Thankfully, I knew that when the monkey songs started it was almost over. “Brass Monkey” – “Shake that Monkey” – “Hey Hey We’re the Monkees” – I thank God that there aren’t too many monkey songs out there, at least not many that the crew I work with know about.
So after the jokes, the songs, then we’d get so busy closing up and shutting down and chasing off the last customers, that they’d all forget about it.
Until the next night.
Then it would happen all over again.
But…
tonight…
…was different.
She’d pressed the five into my hand a little harder than normal. She’d held eye contact a little longer than normal. She’d smiled a little brighter and a little wider than normal.
I didn’t figure it out until I counted my register at the very end of the night.
Then, there it was. Right there in front of my face. I couldn’t believe I’d missed it, and I was so glad that nobody after her paid with a big bill. I was so glad that I was going home then, because I don’t think I could’ve waited once I saw it.
Of course, I had to borrow a five from my boss, which meant agreeing to work doubles next weekend, but it was worth it to get that five from the till.
I know I could’ve just entered it into my phone or written it down on a napkin or even on my hand like I’d seen some of the guys and girls I worked with do.
But I had to have it. The actual five dollar bill that she’d handed me and that she’d written on in her own handwriting before she’d even gotten to my window.
The five dollar bill that said on its margins on both sides: Hi Will!! AIM!! --> munkygirl99 <-- Let’s chat!!
And best of all, in my opinion, she’d drawn all the exclamation points to look like bananas.