The ‘T’ Is Silent

The ice-cream scoop was giving me problems all day. It’s not that I didn’t know how to use it—I had been working at Emperor’s Ice Cream for two years—but today it was being difficult. It threw off the entire routine I had developed: get the order, locate the appropriate flavor, reach, scoop, bowl. Repeat. The malfunction forced me to use both hands to keep the rolled up ball of frozen cream within the scooper’s grasp while I transferred it to the bowl. This forced me to roll up my sleeves to keep the cuffs of my uniform, an anesthetized grey shirt covered by a fading green apron, from touching the customer’s food. The air-conditioning was on full blast to counter the summer heat, causing my exposed forearms to break out in goose bumps.
I was rubbing my chilled flesh to stay warm when the man in the business suit came in. His button-down shirt was untucked and a kaleidoscopic tie hung loosely below his collar. He walked directly to the register, footsteps smacking on the featureless linoleum tile floor, and looked me in the eyes.
“Can I get a triple-scoop of the raspberry sorbet?” He had no discernable accent but he pronounced the final word phonetically, like sore-bet. It caught me off guard and I had to ask him to repeat his order. After he did I picked up the scooper and pulled back the protective glass casing of the ice-cream display.
“You look like you’ve had a bad day,” he said as I located the raspberry. I bent over and began to scoop, with my non-dominant hand ready to spring forward if the scooper once again malfunctioned. It didn’t. The sphere of ice cream stuck perfectly as I transferred it to the triple-scoop sized bowl, smiling. “But I guess you never know when something will come along and change that,” the man said, noticing my happiness.
I rolled down my sleeves as he handed me a five dollar bill. “Don’t worry about the change,” he said, walking towards the door.
“The ‘t’ is silent,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“Sore-bay. It’s pronounced sore-bay.”
“And what did I say?”
“Sore-bet.”
“Sore-bet?”
“Sore-bet.”
“Sore-bet. Sore-bay.” He looked at his triple-scoop bowl and thought it over. “I think I like sore-bet better, don’t you?” Smiling, he walked out of the store.
With a functional scooper I was able to fall back into my routine, but the hours dragged after I did. It was like returning to that grey, mechanical haze allowed seconds to tick away at their own leisure. I finally came back to reality when a woman ordered a cone of raspberry sorbet. She didn’t say it the same as the man in the business suit, and when I told her to pronounce it phonetically she just hiccupped a laugh and asked for her change. I rolled up my sleeves and watched her leave, welcoming the goose bumps that covered my skin.