Waiting in line at Tim’s-Sept.20,2007

I walk through the doors of Tim Horton’s and the scent of freshly brewed coffee is overwhelming. The instrumental tune fills my ears but is quickly shut out by the chatter of customers waiting in line for their freshly baked goods.
The first man in line, who is about 20 years old or so, average in height and wears glasses, quickly orders a large double double and counts out the exact change of $1.58. I take my time waiting in line to order my tea and out of nowhere a chicken fajita hits me on the fore-head; I never liked those cardboard signs.
A young boy steps up to the counter head held high and ready to order. As if he’s done this a million times he says, without hesitation, “large double double, double cupped”.
The smell of coffee and sugar is overwhelming, more and more people are walking in and out of the fingerprint-covered door and I am slowly starting to get anxious to get my tea. The jingle of change and beeping cash registers keep my attention to the front counter, along with the aroma of cinnamon from the fresh cinnamon-raisin bagels that were just put on display.
In walks an older couple, the woman strutting as if she owns the place. She butts in the line-up and with her piercing voice peers over her glasses and orders a whole-wheat roll, cut, two butter on the side, “and that’s it.” She struggles to reach it as she can barely see over the cash register but she snatches it away and takes a seat next to her husband, who, slumped over in his seat, ball cap over his brows, one arm over the chair and leg extended, sits with a smile on his face.
A familiar scent rushes through my nostrils as the baker, dressed in all white and whistling a tune, balances a couple of trays in each hand, filled with a variety of donuts. The raspberry donuts never last long and without restraint the person next to me asks for one before they are even put out on display. The jam trickled down his chin as he devoured his last bite.
The next customer is quite the character. Blue jeans with a hole in one knee, sweat on his forehead and a cloth sticking out of his half torn pocket attached to his red plaid shirt. He asks for a glass of water, repeating himself as if he wasn’t heard the first time, and says repeatedly how hot it is outside, even though it is only about 15 degrees. The cleft lip catches my eye and I no longer wonder why he is so hard to make out when he talks. “Very hot outside, very hot. Very hot out”, he says as he wipes away the beads of sweat on his face and neck.
It’s finally my turn to order. “Small honey lemon tea, one milk please.” The lady behind the counter is quick but neat. Her small fingers grab a cup and her tiny arms reach up to grab a tea bag. I pay and thank her and in return I hear a very friendly “You’re welcome dear, have a good day!” Every day at Tim’s is quite the experience.