Viva Brighton Issue #45 November 2016

COLUMN
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Amy Holtz
The truth is, I’m a Minnesotan
“No. I want FUL milk. FUL.”
There’s a collective shift in the
queue. The man behind me
clears his throat, which sounds
- and I could be imagining this
- a bit like, “Grrrrr.”
“The milk is there. On that
little stand.” The barista turns
her back with an air of finality.
There’s a tiff brewing at the
coffee shop. Apparently not
everyone likes their milk sans
saturated fats, which is fine. But this is the second
time the full-milk seeker has returned to the till,
and now her face is on the turn.
I think that’s what’s happening anyway. I’ve been
staring in intervals at a painting on the wall of a
naked purple woman for sale for the very reasonable
price of £40, and the Victoria sponge in the
glass case in front of me. Both are speaking to me
in sexy voices. The cake sounds like Mel Giedroyc,
I realise, slightly disappointed at my subconscious’
lack of imagination.
But now, the New Zealander in the coffee shop is
staring at me. For support. This realisation sends a
tremor of panic through me. This is partially due to
a condition I have called ‘Minnesota Nice’, which,
I’ve mentioned, crops up now and again. It means
that when someone hands me a steak, even though
I ordered the fish, I smile weakly and pretend I’m
delighted. It means that when a shop person is
unhelpful, or downright rude, I think, illogically,
‘Perhaps they just need a hug’. It’s not even genetic,
so I don’t know how I got it; my dad is notorious
for going around drive-throughs twice (frequently
to my utter teenage mortification)
to demand a top-up
of the Diet Coke some poor,
minimum-waged soul had
failed to fill to his exacting
requirements.
My shoulders lift unconvincingly
in reply. I go to
this coffee shop just to avoid
this kind of confrontation -
the confrontation of choice.
Asking for milk that’s not
already provided, is, with my condition, the psychological
version of poking a bear in the eye with a
flaming stick. It just isn’t worth it.
A growl sounds behind me again. The woman is
leaning over the counter now, after a sharp look
in my direction. ‘Thet over there is lite. Not ful.’
There’s an ‘idiot’ lingering in her breath.
But since I know what it’s like - someone deliberately
misinterpreting your unregal vowel
pronunciation, I suck it up. My voice comes out in a
squeak. “I think she wants whole milk.”
“Hole milk?” The barista’s nose wrinkles momentarily
before, blessedly, her face clears. “Oh,
WHOLE milk.” She wrenches the lid off the cup
and sloshes a cow’s morning’s work into the remaining
space before crushing the lid back on with her
palm. She looks at both of us expectantly.
“Thanks?” I say, even though I haven’t actually
bought anything yet. My condition is in full flare
today. I smile at the lady in front of me, with her
time-intensive coffee, making a mental note to
track down some sort of anti-nice pill that might
sort me out.
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