7am at the Depot

I overhear Kyle and Devin talking as they walk in my direction.
"Baklava," Devin says.
"You wear pastry on your face?" Kyle asks.
"No, ba-kla-va..."
"Yeah, pastry," Kyle repeats.
"No, you wear it when you go snowmobiling."
Back and forth a couple more times and then I butt in.

"Balaclava," I say.
"What?" says Devin.
"The hood thing," I say, "it's a balaclava. Baklava is a pastry."
"But it goes all over your face," Devin says.
"Yeah, like a ski-mask..." I say.
"Yeah..."
"Balaclava," I repeat. "Baklava is pastry. Turkish, I think."

"Yes," says Kyle, pointing emphatically.
"I'm gonna look this up," Devin says.

Five minutes later, I walk up to the desk where they both work.
"What did you call it, again? Baklavalavala?"
"Balaklava."

"I've always just known it as Baklava. I swear, everyone in Wisconsin calls it a Baklava."
He looks it up.
"See?" says Kyle.
"Damn," Devin says. He picks up the phone on his desk and dials a number in an area code I don't recognize.
"Who you calling?" I ask.
"My mom..." He stares straight ahead. "Hey mom, you just made me look like an idiot at work. Yeah, you call the thing you wear when you're snowmobiling a baklava, right? Yeah, turns out that's a pastry. Balaclava, that's what it's called. Yeah, because of you I told everyone at work I wear a pastry on my face. Yeah, thanks." Hangs up. "Damn woman."
"What did she say?" Kyle asks.
"She just laughed at me...thinks it's hilarious..."

END