Kiosk
Pravasan Pillay
I was on my regular morning walk along a busy road on the island of Södermalm, Stockholm. I had been walking for ten minutes when I saw a man ahead of me pacing outside the entrance of a hamburger kiosk. He was talking animatedly on his phone.
The man was in his late fifties, short, balding, and wore a kitchen uniform and a light jacket. He seemed to be on the lookout for someone.
I was about to pass him, when he stepped in front of me, smiled, and motioned at my headphones. I took them off.
“Tjena,” he greeted. “I need your help, please.”
“Tja. What happened?” I asked.
“Come in, please.” The man turned to the kiosk and walked in. I had nothing else to do so I followed him.
Once inside, the man pointed to four televisions mounted above the front counter. The flat screens were all blank.
“I don’t know how,” he said, shrugging. “Can you speak to him?”
Before I could reply he handed me his phone.
“Tjena,” I said.
“Tjena,” a man replied.
The man explained that he was the owner, but that he couldn’t come in until later this afternoon. His fry cook was opening the kiosk instead of him, but was having trouble loading the menu on the televisions. He said he would talk me through how to do it.
The cook handed me a remote.
The owner went through his instructions quickly – too quickly for my liking. I took haphazard notes on a receipt I pulled from my jeans pocket.
In short, I was to access a memory stick plugged into the television, and select an image of the menu – it would then be displayed on the screen. Each of the televisions displayed a different section of the menu, so the process had to be repeated four times.
It seemed like a convoluted way to present a menu to customers every day, but I didn’t want to question how he ran his operation.
“Do you get it?” the owner asked – when he was done explaining.
“Jajamän, I get it,” I replied, confidently, even though my jottings were a mess.
“Thanks,” the owner said.
I said goodbye and hung up.
I started on the first television, but stumbled immediately – I kept getting a “no signal” message. I studied my notes again. I saw that I was pressing a button on the right side of the remote’s navigation arrows when I should have been pressing the one on the left.
Once I figured out the button conundrum, I somehow managed to get the first section of the menu up on screen one. The cook laughed and slapped me on the back. I exhaled with relief, but the fact was that I had a tenuous grasp on how I had gotten it to work.
I made more errors, including my old nemesis “no signal”, but, eventually, I got the entire menu loaded across the bank of televisions. I felt a bit of pride as I glanced over the – reasonably priced – offerings.
“Thanks so much,” the cook said, smiling. He was already busy at the deep fryers in the back.
“No problem.” I gave him a thumbs up, and made towards the door.
But the cook waved me to come behind the counter.
I thought he was going to offer me a free hamburger for helping him, which I was going to politely turn down twice before finally accepting (“I suppose I could have a cheese burger if you insist”), but instead he gestured at a light bulb above the flattop grill.
“Do you know how to get that on?” he asked.
I realised that if I didn’t get out now I would end up doing odd jobs here for the rest of my life.
I told the cook that I was late for an appointment and that I, unfortunately, had to leave.
I asked him if he wanted me to show him how to load the menu but he shook his head. I left the receipt with my notes on the counter, and continued my walk.
Since then, every time I go by the kiosk, I have developed a habit of looking through the windows to check if the menu is displaying properly. I have come to feel a vague sense of stewardship over it.
I have also, in preparation, read online manuals for that model of television to sure up my competency. I’m more than ready to hop in and help out if the need ever arises again.
