It was on the quiet side, so I was standing out in front, ready to
"intercept" people coming in, per instruction. A lady in tall boots, a
long cashmere cardigan and moto-style yoga pants approached, and I heard her tell the person she was on the phone with that she was about to rent a bicycle. I hustled over to the register,
making a mental note to ask where she'd gotten her yoga pants after she hung up. I waited as she stood in front of the counter saying,
"We're trying to decide between Haleakala and the Road to Hana. I mean,
we could do both." She looked up long enough to tell me she needed a
bicycle. I picked up one of our little contract/clipboard combos and
started to tell her the parts she needed to fill out, but she was back to
talking, so I just tapped the blanks with the pen and pushed both toward
her. "I mean, we'll be staying at the Ritz, so they'll be able to help
us plan, either way."
Surely she's wrapping up, I thought, so I waited
to ask her what kind of bike she wanted. She pushed the contract back
toward me, looking into the distance. "I mean, Haleakala is supposed to be amazing, but I
don't know if everyone is going to feel like it."
I held up my clawed
hand in the international gesture for "I need your credit card." She
slapped it down on the contract. I ran it and gave her the receipt to
sign, which she did without pausing her conversation or looking up.
"What kind of bike would you like?" I asked, even though she was still talking. Fine. Beach cruiser it is. I grabbed one, set it up next
to her and adjusted the saddle height to her size.
"Not that one. I need a basket. We probably
shouldn't skip Haleakala, after all." I swapped bikes, crossed out the bike's serial
number on her paperwork and adjusted the height. "I have to go, I'm
getting on a bicycle now," she said, and finally hung up. And took off. I never did get
to ask about her yoga pants, but by that time, I didn't care
anyway.
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