Please Take Your Time

During college, I worked weekends at a large café in Sinchon. The café, which occupied an entire building, was always packed with customers. New hires couldn't handle beverage preparation, which required memorizing every ingredient and ratio. I mostly worked the register. Americanos and lattes were straightforward. The problem was the parfaits, smoothies, and the like—hard to find on the POS system. Even after memorizing the discount systems applied during payment, I'd forget them by the next weekend. 'Please take your time,' a customer said one day as I struggled at the counter. Amid the transactional exchange of credit cards, my hurried hands stilled. It was a mysterious experience. After that, I tried to make that 'phrase of consideration' a habit. 'You can receive it by Christmas,' I heard something similar recently. When I informed a customer that their furniture would be delayed, they said this. I thought it might be the Chungcheong-style phrasing popular online these days, but the customer was from Busan. Their way of saying 'it's fine' was unexpectedly amusing, making me feel even more apologetic. The situation unfolded like this: I started production during the rainy season. To prevent materials from getting soaked, I waited days for dry weather. Just as progress began, rain leaked from the workshop ceiling. The finished section got wet, forcing me to remake it. While I stalled, hardware suppliers left for summer vacation. My meticulous plans collapsed like dominoes. Delivery was no easier. Rain had to stay away not just in Namyangju, where the workshop was, or Busan, the destination, but everywhere in between. My pickup truck wasn't sealed. I checked the weather for a week beforehand—more carefully than I'd ever check the forecast for my own wedding. Despite predictions, rain fell the day before. I cursed the weather service. Late at night, I rushed to pack and load the furniture during a brief dry spell. Thankfully, the scattered showers didn't damage it. People who entrust us work constantly ask, 'How long will it take?' and 'When will it be done?' These questions, veiled as inquiries, are pressures. But neither part-timers nor carpenters can—or should—rush. The most anxious are those stuck in chaos: wet wood, tangled plans. They're also the most prone to mistakes. Considerate words give strength—the strength to not rush, to not err. For me, they were also a form of trust. It's harder to cut corners when someone believes in you. I tried harder, and the bench I crafted didn't need to wait until Christmas. It was in place before autumn. Still, next year, I'll order wood before the rainy season.