My Night With Alex Trebek
“But he’s from Canada,” she says.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” I pause and look down at my coffee. “What are you saying, that I should have a problem with Canadians?”
“No. I’m saying that, on previous occasions, you have made fun of Canadians. And I have trouble believing you now think this guy is actually really cool.”
“Well, why is that so wrong? What is your problem with this?”
“Well, for one thing, he’s Canadian. And he’s such a smarmy guy, too. That mustache he used to have always freaked me out when I watched him on TV. And he pretends that he knows the answers to everything. I just think it’s not modest.”
“Who cares about modesty?” The coffee is burnt. “What if he really does know the answers to everything?” There’s no real reason for us to keep coming to this coffee shop, except that I work here. Which is how I met him in the first place.
* * *
He came into Espresso King one day, about a week ago, walking confidently through the open doors. No modesty necessary for this guy, no sirree. It’s right before we close. I was working the counter, and was just about ready to head home. There hadn’t been a customer in over an hour, so I’d been busying myself with sidework–cleaning, juicing oranges, whatever. He walked up to the register–there was a Jeopardy try-out in town, that’s why he was there–and rang the little bell we have for service.
I put down the orange juicer and walked over to help him.
“Can I help you?” I asked, with that fantastically bored tone of voice that only baristas can truly manage.
“The cost of a tall double Americano.” He got right down to business, this guy.
“What is $2.25 plus tax?” I asked him.
He seemed pleased by this. “Excellent. I will have a tall double caf