The woman was conscientious but clearly in the wrong job. Maybe she was too old to tolerate the rush of fast-food restaurant diners. For sure, she was crabby and very unfriendly. A restaurant is not a place for an employee to elbow customers aside to wipe water marks, smeared mustard or dribbled ketchup! Customers should be able to refill their drinks, get straws or grab napkins without getting rudely shoved aside.

But that's what she does! Watching her with kids is a real study in destructive customer relations. My granddaughters strongly vote for drive?through service when we stop at that restaurant. Going inside is intimidating, even for me. You sit on the edge of your seat while she patrols the booths and tables with an eagle eye -- sharper than any school cafeteria monitor I've ever seen.
That same critical demeanor greets everyone at the door with a "you'd-better-toe-the-line-if-you-intend-to-eat-here" gaze. No military recruit could feel more intimidated.

The first time I encountered her I chalked up her blatant rudeness to her possibly having a bad day. Subsequent visits convinced me that all her days were bad!

This particular day my granddaughters and I were shopping. The weather was stormy and we were all hungry. The restaurant was on our way home, so with clicking turn signals and flapping windshield wipers, I swung into the parking lot. The groans from the back came as expected. "Let's drive through, Gram." "What if that old grouch is working?" "Do we have to eat inside?"
"It's miserable out here, and maybe she's not working," I offered. "And anyhow, we'll pray for her; she never seems very happy. If she is working, we'll show her how Christians behave."

One dripping foot in the door told us she was on duty, fully equipped with her perpetual scowl and a raggedy mop. While we stood at the counter to order, she slopped that mop around our feet. It was enough to drive anyone back out into the downpour, but along with other customers who were also annoyed by her actions, we stayed.

"Get your drinks and be careful!" I cautioned after we'd placed our orders. I followed my granddaughters and pressed the ice lever and watched cubes tumble into my cup. The kids were being model customers -- enough to make any grandma beam. No spills, messes or smears. I filled tiny paper cups with ketchup and glanced over to see the girls take our tray to the far booth. Nothing to worry about so far.

I put the little cups of ketchup on a napkin. They were so lightweight that I balanced it in the palm of one hand and carried my drink in the other as I started toward our booth with confidence.
"Grandma!" Jessi exclaimed suddenly. "Look out!"
I jerked and Erica giggled.

Jessi jumped up. "Gram! You're doing it again!"

A quick glance down told me the third ketchup cup was about to slide off the napkin. Behind me, two splattered bull's-eyes of ketchup marked my trail. Following close behind was the mop-wielding employee with fire in her eyes and steam in her ears, and her angry glare was meant for me!

Like a nervous child I quickly put my drink down on the table with the remaining ketchup, grabbed paper napkins and knelt to sop up the spilled ketchup. My granddaughters didn't know whether to help, laugh or duck in fear of the expected outburst. "I'm sorry I made a mess," I stammered. "It was an accident."

I couldn't meet her gaze as she stood over me with that stern expression. I just dabbed at the ketchup splats while customers watched in mid?bite. No doubt they waited for an explosion of some kind, but none came.

"I'll clean it up," she insisted gruffly. I thought she might even give me a nudge with her foot, but she didn't.

"I made the mess," I replied. "I'll do it." I finished the job and returned to our booth, too embarrassed to meet anyone's gaze.

We said grace and then rushed through our meals. When we finished, the girls put our trash into the receptacle by the door, then went outside to get into the van.

My mind was on the woman. She was hovering around the condiment bar, glaring over her glasses. I stopped to refill my drink, and with uncustomary boldness I touched her arm. Her eyes blazed in reply. "I'm sorry about the mess," I said. "I'm sure you're glad I'm leaving."

Her look softened, and for the very first time she gave a half-smile. "That wasn't so bad," she muttered gruffly. "You should see some of the messes! At least you wiped yours up!"

"Thanks," I replied. "Have a good day."
She nodded and kept right on smiling. "You too."

I thought of her the whole way home. Possibly she was retired or widowed and needed the money. No doubt she had worries and concerns ?- things that made her impatient and gruff, tired and unpleasant -- but I was glad I had spilled the ketchup. It was a mess worth cleaning up.