I’m working on a class report about small businesses and how they advertise. One of the campus paper’s better and more frequent advertisers is the Noyes Street Cafe, so I decided to stop in and try to get an interview there.
Coming in, I hadn’t expected to be welcomed with open arms. The Cafe, despite being in a young neighborhood, has a reputation of treating students to service a few notches below friendly. Blowing them off, more or less. (Some evidence here.)
But, I must admit I didn’t expect the glare I got upon walking in the door. Or the look I got as I began to speak. Or the most pained conversation I’ve ever had with restaurant staff.
My counterpart in conversation was Glaressa, countess of rude.
Me: “Hi, is this person who handles your advertising around?”
Glaressa: “No, he’s not.”
Me: “Well, when will be be in?”
Glaressa: “This weekend.”
Me: “Great–what’s his name?”
Glaressa: “I’m not allowed to tell you that.”
There was another awkward pause as she glared. Then a waiter turned around, gave her an angry look and told me that the advertising man’s name was Chuck. I thanked the waiter and left.
Chuck, my friend, you have your work cut out for you.