This must be what Hell's like.

That's what my coworkers and I were thinking Friday night from 9:30 until the wee hours of Saturday morning when Borders Boooks and Music was hosting it's biggest and last Harry Potter release party. The cafe was replete with balloons while one of our of the tables had been converted into a palm reading "booth" manned by one of the booksellers with an apropo "gypsy-bangled" skirt that cost 2 bucks from Target. I was fascinated by the store's line-up of Harry-themed events and asked aforementioned palmreader if she really was one or if she had just done a crash coursean hour before coming in. At the time, she said the manager's had handed her a cheat sheet with bogus fortunes, e.g. "I see a book in your future. . ." Very corporate, if you ask me. But later, she managed to give us cafe workers each our own readings. (My head line = huge--so much so that I often rule matters of the heart with my head. Long life line. Will have a choice late in life that is promising.) But her costume was great.

For a moment, I thought it would be a cute idea to play off the Great Snape Debate (literally) going on upstairs by polling the cafe customers. I could write it on the slate marker board next to the cash register: Friend? Foe? Free Agent (option upon request)? I thought it would be fun--a good idea. That was before I looked up from the steaming wand to see the line stretching from the cafe to the Periodicals section.

No, actually that was not the line to pay for food; it was the line for our faux-Trelawney's palm reading kitsch. The line for the cafe lined up along the West edge of our food counter. For those of you who have been to a S____'s B__, you'll know that certain food items are separated from customers hands, ears, breaths by only a lone piece of plexiglass. (As one customer said, "Flies, people sneezing, I'm just saying. . ." What he did not say was "Change the friggin' layout so it's more sanitary!" I appreciated the attempt at politeness--they are so few and far between in the food service industry.) The line migrated clockwise throughout the night until it was parallel to the palm reading line, and when we looked up from removing the tops of blenders and emptying clumps of "crushed ice drinks" into cups (yes, some of them having sprung leaks, some of our shoes wet with sour milk) the two lines looked as though they were one, large, omniscient snake that was oh so hungry for coffee and a meeting with the Hand of fate!

It was terrifying.

But among the cries of "Why doesn't this look like the picture!" and the exchange between one customer and I: "Would you mind, if, perhaps, I could get some whipped cream on my coffee?" Me: "You know, at this time, nothing means anything. So yes, please let me get you some whipped cream for your coffee.", we all managed to hang on to our sanity for three straight hours of Harry Potter-crazed coffee orders. (Yes, more the adults than the children. But, the children were much better behaved .)

And finally, at half-past twelve, we looked up from punching numbers into our convection oven to see that that line--the large, fat snake that could probably speak Parseltongue--was suddenly, amazingly line up at the cash registers. For the books for Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Rowling herself. And not, we were relieved to see, for Medium Mochas ("Oh! I wanted that iced!") or Turkey & Havarti sandwiches ("I don't need all the stickers! I'm in a hurry!"). The weight of the world rolled off our shoulders, we began to speak in complete sentences yet again, and we were glad to see the end of the adventures of Mr. Potter and his friends.