The Cobbler Part III: He Did It for the Cookies

“Hey!” The Cobbler turned around with a huge grin, somewhat allaying my fears that there was a mall rumor going around that I was a stalker. The package of cookies in my purse felt suddenly heavier.

“So what’s the bad news you had to tell me?”

His smile was replaced by a look of comical forlornness. “Sadly, I have to leave you.”

“You what?” I was 100% confused because he was acting like he was telling his sweetheart he had been drafted and we seemed to have crossed over into one of my weird historical fantasies that I absolutely do not have a dozen times a day.

“I have to leave you. I got a new store in a different state that is bigger and is a big step up, but I’m sad to leave Oklahoma.”

OF COURSE. Of course the guy who seems to actually be into me and I’m actually into him is leaving for an entirely different state. But, my ever optimistic mind reminds me, the state he’s moving to actually borders Oklahoma, so a long-distance relationship is feasible. (This is desperation at its most potent.)

“Congratulations. That’s great. But who will I come to with shoe problems?”

“Don Pete will be the new store manager, and he is this awesome five foot nothing guy. All machismo and good style. You’ll like him.”

“Don Pete sounds like a pirate.”

“Yeah. I guess he does,” the Cobbler said wistfully.

“Well, I guess it’s fate.” He scrunched his face in confusion. “I brought you some goodies finally.”

“You did not!”

I pulled out the burgeoning bag of baked goods.

He reached for the bag like a little boy reaching for a Christmas present. “What is it? Scones?”

“No. Actually. I brought a scone by last night after my shift but I sat on it. Ha. Ha.” My face turned completely red. My mouth had started talking without my permission. Oh jeez. Oh jeez. Oh jeez.

“They’re my chockablock chockfull chocolate chip cookies.”

“So they’re not from the bakery?”

“No. My recipe. Welp! Hope you enjoy them.” I started walking for the door.

“Where are you going? I have to critique your baking skills.”

“Really? You think I can’t deliver?”

“I’m not so sure. I think a professional should stay and hear her taster’s opinion though.”

He opened the bag finally. “Oh my gosh! There are like a million. This is a haul!”

“Yeah, you’ll have to share with your buddy. Heheh.”

“Oh I will.”

Why won’t he just take a bite so I can get out of there? 1) He’s moving out of town, so even though long-distance is plausible, I HATE long distance, so no thank you. 2) Something in his face when I handed him the cookies was too surprised, which reminded me of 3) What in the world had Not Irish Boy meant by “Look who’s here”? I had to get out of Dodge.

I edged for the door as he took a bite. He pinned me in place with his eyes before closing them in apparent ecstasy. Wordlessly he held the bag out toward Not Irish Boy, who took a cookie and unleashed an unabashedly loud moan. “These are good!”

“Glad you like them! Welp! Better be going.”

“Hold on. I haven’t told you what I think yet.” I turned at the door. He waited for me to walk all the way to where he stood at the back. Seriously. What was going on here?

“These…are a delight. Seriously, I am so sad to be leaving you. You’re the best. Is there another one of you? A sister? A cousin? A twin?! Do you have a twin who lives where I’m moving?”

I searched his face. Was he flirting? This seemed like super flirting. Flirting on steroids. But what would I know? “Nope. I’m pretty much one of a kind…”

I edged back toward the door, and he followed, continuing to pop cookies in his mouth.

“That is too bad. You’re the best customer I’ve ever had. I don’t think there will be customers like you where I’m moving. Mmm! It’s just too bad I have to leave.” He popped another one into his mouth.

At his point I had been trying to leave for a good 8-10 minutes. It had been obvious that I’d been trying to leave, and he had purposefully kept talking to keep me there. He had seemed to be flirting heavily, but then again, he had just called me a customer, which was like a knife to the heart. So I decided to just suck it up and go for it. No regrets.

“It is too bad. When do you leave?”

“Today is actually my last day at work. I finish inventory, and then I have two weeks off to move.”

“Well, I’d really like to see you before you leave. You should swing by Bakery sometime and visit me where I work for once. I’ll get you that scone.”

Something in his face changed that caused my stomach to twist hard and my mouth to dry. Like something had just dawned on him.

“I haven’t even started packing yet, but yeah, if there’s time, we’ll drop by.”

“Okay. Thx. Bai.” And I was out of there like a shot, dialing Sprinkle as I speed walked back to my car. I told her everything, ending with, “WE?! Who the hell is we?” This time I had remembered his name—first and last. Dick Sprinkle was on the case.

She called me a few hours later to tell me her findings: he was married with a kid, loved classic cars, and went hunting and fishing for fun. So, dodged a bullet on that one. I would never under any circumstances date someone who liked classic cars.

Thank God I hadn’t given him my number! Chip, if you’re reading this, you saved my bacon with your advice. The moral of the story is probably that if a guy really likes you, ladies and ladies, he’ll make it happen. You just have to make yourself available, and then know when to write him off for a lost cause. Also, don’t have a mall crush. Also, men will use you for your baking prowess. There were  a lot of lessons, I guess.

The Cobbler Part II: Lord Preserve Me and My Faint Heart

After leaving the store with a successful flirtation feather in my cap, I called Sprinkle on the way home. My recap was long and glowing, but she was only interested in one thing. A name. She tried to goad my memory. I was pretty certain his first name began with a B and the last name began with an M. Brendan Monocle. Brent McGrady. Bo Metcalf. I had no idea, and so Sprinkle’s considerable Internet PI skills went unused unfortunately.

I polled everyone I knew about how long to wait before going back and whether or not to just give the Cobbler my number or ask for his. The general consensus was that it was much easier to just include my number in with some sweets. One dissenting voice cautioned that if a guy was actually interested, he would ask for my number and to just give the sweets alone and see what he did. But it was one among a chorus saying, “Go for it, Buttercup! You got this girl.”

So a week later, at the end of one of my shifts, I baked a gorgeous orange-blueberry scone, wrapped it up nice and masculine, and wrote a card with some help: "Enjoy the scone! Next time, give me a call and we'll share one over coffee. -Buttercup Harding, my-dig-its"

With my heart in my throat and my bestie, Sprinkle, on standby in case I threw up out of nerves all over my crush when he let me down gently, I was ready to deliver my scone, complete with my number. On advice from my brother, I left my insoles for returning in the car. (The Cobbler was right: the Keens had broken in nicely. Not leather stocking nicely, but enough not to be hobbled with pain.) Brother suggested that returning the merchandise might send mixed messages, and if I was going to go through with this, I might as well commit. 

I do a walk by, and he's not there. I do another lap. Totally not there.

Well, I'll be damned if I'm going to drive all the way to the mall for no reason. I go out to the car and switch my scone for the insoles, go back in, and make the return. I call Sprinkle on my way back out to the car, filling her in on the disappointment. I would just have to come back the next morning to give it to him I tell her as I slide into my car and CRUNCH. 

I had sat on the scone. I sat on my baked heart.

The box and card were totally crumpled, but the scone was fine. At the first sound of destruction, I had jumped back out of the car like my bottom was on fire, so I guess that saved the baked good. I determined to buy a new box and just take it to him again in the morning. I was pretty sure he worked Mondays. [Not at all stalkerish to know a stranger’s schedule because you visit him at work so often—unsolicited.]

Monday morning dawned bright and brisk. I had forgotten to buy a new box for the scone. And what if it was stale? I hadn’t even bothered storing it correctly when I got home. This really worried me. I couldn’t give him a stale symbol of my affection.

After staring at the scone, willing it to give me some sign of freshness, I finally pinched off a corner to taste. The problem with this is twofold: 1) a tiny taste cannot convey freshness or staleness, and 2) IT WAS TOTALLY OBVIOUSLY MISSING A CORNER. So, I had to eat it all. It wasn’t stale. It was delicious.

Luckily my 3:00 am to 11:00 am bakery job meant that even on my day off I woke well before the mall opened. And, in the end, I think the scone debacle was a godsend because if I hadn’t had to bake something else that morning, I would have probably had some sort of mental episode from having to wait without any distractions.

I decided to make bite-sized chocolate chip cookies that are delicious—no lie. And, because they’re so tiny, the recipe makes about a million. So I dumped 5 dozen tiny cookies into a brown paper bag (like a lunch bag) and tied it with twine (so manly), and after a lot of mental back and forth, decided not to include my number.

The drive to the mall was torture. I was sweating profusely. My face was flushed, and as I walked through Dillard’s, several of the sales associates gave me worried looks. I probably looked like an alcoholic or substance abuser of some kind, which, as I emerged from Dillard’s into the open walkway of the mall, I realized they must be pretty used to on a Monday because it was filled with meth heads. You know their meth heads because of all the teeth they don’t have. There is also something in the air of how they carry themselves and wear their acid washed jeans.

Of course, it’s also possible that the sales associates now recognized me from my frequent visits and were concerned that I was going to have my heart broken by that rakish shoes salesman. Or there was a mall rumor about me being a stalker.

I made a beeline for the shoe store. He’s there. The Cobbler. He was helping a customer, but when I walked in he smiled and waved before attending to his customer’s requests. There was another sales associate there who looked exactly like the young long-haired drummer from the band Glen Hansard hires in Once. I expected when he opened his mouth that he would have an Irish brogue.

“Is there something you’re looking for?”

I had been lurking around the sales section, waiting for the Cobbler to wrap it up with the most indecisive male shopper ever. The Cobbler would occasionally look over with a smile or a wink (a wink! There are some people who think the wink is cheesy or weird. I personally love winks all the way from my delightedly flushed cheeks to my curled toes). This kept me hanging on despite all my nerves shouting, “Get out of here before you make a fool of yourself!” But no way, baby. I was committing to this foolhardiness.

“Nope,” I told the disappointingly American boy. “Just looking at the sales rack. Those Brooks?”

We talked shoe small talk until it became apparent that if I didn’t want to make a total ass out of myself, I would have to try some on. Not Irish Boy went to the back to check for my size, and the Cobbler came over to chat while his customer was walking around the store in yet another pair of shoes.

“Well. I’ve got bad news.”

“You do? What’s that? The number of meth addicts who shop at this mall?”

He blinked at me. “What?”

“Have you seen the people walking around?”

He looked out the store’s open doors just as Billy Jean and Billy Bob rounded the corner for the tenth time (I swear—I was keeping count while I was waiting).

“Yeah, I guess there are some pretty weird people here this time of day during the week.”

“Not a whole lot of teeth happening.”

He laughed. Hard. I beamed.

His customer asked for a different size or something, and the Not Irish Boy came back to tell me he didn’t have my size in the Brooks. So I thought screw it. I’ll come back later. I needed a curtain rod for the blackout curtains I had bought since I had to go to bed at 6 p.m. every night. Living. The. Dream. I’d just run down to some department stores, check out what they had going on, and come back in 30 minutes or something. Surely that would be enough time for the gentleman to make up his mind. There was no way in hell I was giving my bag full of cookies to the Cobbler in front of a customer. Dear Lord in heaven preserve me and my faint heart.

“You’re not leaving are you?”

I turned around at the door. “I’ll be back to chat. I have something else I need to do while I’m here.”

As I sashayed my way down to Penny’s, weaving in between tweakers, I glowed with womanly self-assurance. I mean, you can’t hear the wounded pleading in his voice—but it was there. That man was in love with me. This was going to be cake. I texted Sprinkle an updated while I dinked around. Bought a curtain rod. Tried on clothes I had no intention of buying. Browsed Claire’s because kids these days. Browsed Hot Topic because goths these days. Went back by the shoe store—and the customer was still there! It had to have been at least 30 minutes since I had left. I had waited 30 minutes in the store. And he had been there when I got there. Who knows how long he had been “shopping.” And this is not a big shoe store. Was he trying on every size in every shoe? What on earth?

I kept right on walking back to Dillard’s. Bought a blanket because when do you ever not need a soft blanket? And took all my purchases to my car. Having a mall crush is expensive, people. If for no other reason, don’t do it to preserve your folding money.

So at this point it had to have been at least almost an hour since I left the store. I walk by, and yes, the customer is gone. The Cobbler is sitting on the floor doing inventory. Not Irish Boy looks up and says, “Hey, Travis [aside: I actually don’t remember his name, but I know it absolutely did not start with a B], look who’s here.”

This causes my heart to lurch painfully. What did that mean? “Look who’s here?” Was that knowing tone because the Cobbler had thought I’d left and told this neo-hippy that he was bummed we hadn’t gotten to talk, that he loved me and wanted nothing more than to confess his love? Or did it mean, “Hey, look. Your stalker’s back”? What did the Dillard's sales associates know? What had their looks meant?!

[Next Tuesday will be the third and final installment of The Cobbler series where I might actually get somewhere with this guy...]

The Cobbler: Part 1 - Buttercup Forays into Flirting

About the time I took my blog hiatus (December of last year), I was hired as a baker at—where else—a bakery. All in the quest to open up a coffee shop that never materialized. To work in a kitchen, you must wear slip-resistant shoes or you will slip and you will tear/pull something that should never be torn/pulled.

When I was looking for slip resistant shoes, I went all over the freaking city, and I ended up at the mall where there was a uniform store, and uniform stores usually have slip-resistant shoes. After bebopping around the mall at all the department stores and that uniform store and Famous Footwear and others, I ended up at the last shoe store I hadn’t tried. Sadly, there were no slip-resistant shoes, but there was a very attractive sales associate. Super tall, beard, black-framed glasses, heroine-addict skinny. Rawr. And he was funny. We just talked about shoes and that I was a baker, etc. Nothing personal. But we were laughing and whatever. It was fun. So I left not looking at his name or his ring finger or anything because I had no intention whatsoever of ever returning. I'm not that kind of girl. 

However, a couple of things happened in quick succession afterward. I listened to an NPR story where a woman was talking about how she woke up at 34 and basically realized that she had forgotten to get married. And it was 36 before she met her husband, and 39 before she had her first kid. And it hit me that I'm pretty passive about my love life or, you know, just getting out there in general. I could totally wake up at 40 and realize I'd forgotten to get married—but man did I have a great career, or a wall full of degrees or whatever. The next day after the NPR story about freezing your eggs just in case you don’t have kids until your forties, I went to a movie with a friend and jokingly suggested we walk by and I'd point out my "mall crush." Just being silly. Her response: "You could totally tap that." Which was, uhm, unexpected. And I put the kabosh on that real fast—so I thought. But then after the movie we met up with our other friend, and other friend explained that this is how people meet people and I just had to ask for his number. Super simple, right?

So after sleeping on it and working myself up, the next day, which happened to be my day off, I drove to the mall and sat in my car and silently freaked out. I called Sprinkle for advice, which, you know, wasn't advice so much as just made me laugh and feel like it was more of a story/adventure than something real and possibly horribly humiliating. She convinces me to just do a walk by, see if he's even there. So I get out of the car and do a walk by—butterflies in my stomach the entire trek from car to mall entrance to store entrance—and I work up my nerve to look over to my right into the store just as he's walking out of the store, makes eye contact with me, and smiles. I lower my head and just keep right on a walking. It was not in the plan that he come out of the store (what?!) and see me and recognize me. 

Luckily, there was an Orange Julius and a convenience store type situation just around the corner. So I had an excuse for continuing to walk. After texting Sprinkle my moment of insanity, and her texting me more instructions [aside: she has no basis for expertise in this area. Not only has she been with the same guy since she was 18, but she also tried to set me up with a guy who a month later had a sex-change operation. Yet I continue to look to her for advice], I took a deep breath and walked back into the store. I had an excuse ready. I needed insoles. I really did. I don't have to spend money to get guys to flirt with me—or I don't think I do. 

"Hey." Weak wave, embarrassed smile.

"Oh hey! It's the baker. How you been?" said the Cobbler [nickname of hot sales associate, used here on out]. 

"Oh fine, fine. I couldn't remember if you had insoles." I still hadn't looked at him.

"Well of course!" He motions to a section of the wall in the very back corner that was all two feet wide, floor to ceiling. 

"Oh yeah. How did I miss your vast selection last time?"

He laughed. "I mean, we have at least...what? Three different types. What more could you need?" He walked to the wall and looked for the insole of choice. "What size were you again? Thirteen and a half?"

"Yep, yep. But let's try an eight and a half just for laughs."

He grabs the insoles and motions to the chair. "Okay. Now, I'm going to show you some magic because I'm all about the magic." 

I sit and try to get off my purse, which of course tangles on my scarf, so while I’m unwinding myself, I feel some hands on my ankles. The Cobbler is taking off my shoes for me, which feels weirdly intimate, and I might have been in mid-sentence and just stopped talking. Or whimpered. That part is a little fuzzy. 

"Okay," he says, grinning widely, "now stand on the insoles and stretch out your arms."

I do so.

"Now, I"m going to press down on your hands, and you're not going to go anywhere. The insoles are going to stabilize you." 

As he pressed down on my hands, I checked out those long digits for a wedding ring. There wasn't one. So, check that off the list. Now to get his name. I looked at his name tag, and then up into his eyes, and all I remembered was that there was a B somewhere. His first name maybe. Brian? Buck? Bob? Ben? Brent? Belvedere? 

During this time, he was listing off the reasons I wasn't falling and what my feet were feeling, which, apparently, was total awesomeness. I had my doubts—remember, I don't buy something just because I want a guy to like me. 

"Okay. I'm going to step on the ground, and you do your thing, and we'll see if I fall over or whatever."

He smiled. "I was just about to suggest that."

So we go through the ordeal again. I mean, we were practically holding hands. Ordeal might have been the wrong word. 

"Did you not find any shoes? That's why you need insoles."

"No, I bought some Keens. But they are killing my feet, so I thought I'd buy some insoles to switch out until they're all broken in."

"Oh man, Keens are going to break in real well. They're going to be like...like leather stockings on your feet." 

"Uhm, does that feel good? Are leather stockings really comfortable?"

"Leather stockings are the height of comfort. They're like moccasins. That's what I was thinking of. Moccasins. If I could make moccasins, I would be a rich, rich man. They're the most comfortable thing in the world."

"You know, they sell moccasin kits at places like Hobby Lobby."

"WHY am I not at home right now making moccasins? There was this customer one time who made his own moccasins. They were knee high and laced up starting at the ankle—he was kind of a weird dude—but his shoes were awesome. He was a security guard and said they were for sneaking up on the baddies. I listened to him walking around, and you seriously couldn't hear him."

I snorted. "Sure, soundless in a mall. Drop him in a forest and let him sneak up on a turkey. Then I'd believe those were quality moccasins."

The Cobbler's head dipped to the side and he paused, processing the turkey comment no doubt. And I paused to process it as well. Turkey. Not a deer or rabbit or any other average forest mammal. Classic Buttercup. I scrambled to take his attention off my weirdness as I bent to put my shoes back on. "So what kind of leather did he use? I mean, did he cure his own, or buy it?"

"I don't know. They looked good. He probably bought it, I assume."

"Because it's hard to find good leather for making moccasins. Don't ask how I know that."

He laughed and headed toward the register.

"So, how much are the insoles?"

"Well normally they'd be $35, but for you, they're on sale for $34.99."

"Oh man, gotta love those penny sales. Okay, I'll take them."

"Listen, your Keens really are going to break in well, and you're not going to need these any more. They have a thirty-day guarantee, and it doesn't matter what shape they're in when you bring them back to me—they could be covered in muffin batter, and I would still take them back."

"I hope I don't have muffin batter in my shoes. I mean, I'm into some weird stuff, but nothing like that." I laughed (joking, right? Everyone knows this is a joke.)

He laughed (he totally knew I was joking). "Well, whatever shape they’re in, I'll make the return if you don't need them anymore. And with the Keens, you shouldn't need them for long." He rang me up and leaned against the counter toward me. "Is there anything else I can do for you? Anything else you need?"

I thought about saying, "Yeah, your number." But nearly dropped dead at just the thought, and so said that that was all.

"Okay, great. I have to ask you, though..."

I looked up with big giant pink hearts in my eyes, I'm sure.

"I have to ask, where's my scone?"

"Your what?"

"You've been in a couple times and you still haven't brought me any baked goods from your bakery. Next time, I think you should definitely bring me a scone."

"I'm sorry. I had no idea you were a scone man. Next time, I will definitely bring some goodies."

So I left thinking he's given me two reasons, that he generated himself, for me to come back and visit him. Maybe...maybe it wasn't all in my head and it wouldn't be a lesson in utter humiliation after all...