Floor Milk Mop Hands

an ode to an earworm

If you don’t immediately know who lives in a pineapple under the sea, don’t fret, the rest of this post might still ring true.

It was a Saturday in late July of 2023 which I know because I was in exactly the same place I was every Saturday in 2023 at 10:15 am. Do you have moments like this? Regular, rhythmic places you find yourself, which lull you into the comfort of routine?

Every Saturday in 2023 at the conclusion my 9am yoga class, I would invite the folks present to be bold and wander a block or two to join me for coffee.

While the location and mediocre coffee was consistent, the company would ebb and flow. Some regulars, some occasionals, and rarely a terrifically brave visitor passing through town who might be the only one to take me up on the invite.

On this particular day, it was a regular student and my person, so the three of us meandered and then waited behind the cue of Denver’s most cliche: runners and cyclists with double-digit mile counts behind them already, new parents in brand name workout gear with top-of-the-line strollers, and a remarkable number of individuals whose dogs would accompany them along for Saturday coffee.

Fifteen minutes into our wait, we were deep into our getting-to-know-you conversation and eyed a nearly empty bakery case as the people in front of us inquired as to whether there were additional options in the back.

Indeed there were, the frantic and frazzled overcaffeinated register-focused barista promised. She ran past the only other barista, who had more than a dozen cups to fill lined up and a gallon of milk in each hand to fetch an oversized box of ‘freshly’ baked (and boxed?) goodies, only to crash into said barista on her return. A full and previously unopened gallon of milk hit the floor in the kerfuffle, creating an unfortunate and expansive white tide. The barista, nostrils flaring in contempt, dropped her pastry box on the counter, spun, and returned with a Very Sad Mop and bucket.

You’ve seen this very same yellow bucket on wheels, with a Classic Disney mop that could have come directly from Fantasia or Cinderella. Long tendrils of ancient long-since-white cord wrapped and twisted.

She swiped and dabbed and administered a few of the counter towels to the receding dairy ocean, and then turned back to the pastry box reached in to retrieve, plate, and deliver a muffin.

With. Her. Bare. Unwashed. Hand.

The recipient received said muffin as my little trio did our best exhaggerated disbelief looks.

Floor milk mop hands

I whispered.

Floor milk mop hands!

I said louder.