Pocket Dispatch from a Lockout
“Corner. Hey Paul, are we out of that Kenyan dark roast?”
“Hmm? Uhh… yeah.”
“K. Th-.”
“Wait a sec. You better get in here.”
“There are customers, dude. I’ve got a line—“
“Fuck em.“
“Oh… K?”
“You guys still with us back there?” Some douche in an button-down shirt is in the back of the stock room, trying to hold the attention of the rest of the staff. My manager, Paul, who never looks worried, is trying to look at the douche and the exit at the same time. He looks like he’s thinking fast.
“Anyway, you’ll all be paid for your final shifts today. All stores will cease operations effective immediately, and you’re dismissed as soon as you can close the store. I’ll be on site to answer questions and take the keys when you’re done.”
I look at Paul and mouth WTF? but he’s already shaking his head and closing his eyes slowly. My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Paul, who is standing right next to me.
closing all stores. Now. we have to get customers out, then leave.
My eyes go wide, then narrow. I turn around and push the swinging door hard. I don’t say corner. I can hear the douche’s voice rise behind me, then get muffled by the door. “Hey, we’re not done here. Hey!”
“OK,” I tell my customer, who is clearly doing Pissed Texting on his phone, ducking back under the bar. “I have bad news and I have bad news.”
He makes the same face at me I made at Paul’s text.
“We’re out of that Kenyan dark roast, and the store is closing.”
“Can I still get my coffee?”
My eyes blur and my mind goes somewhere else for a second.
“Brother, the way I see it,” I say, glancing halfway over my shoulder as I pull a coffee cup from the stack and start filling it, “You can have anything you want.”
I hand him his coffee with a muffin from the case, then pour myself a Hopewell Going Places Hazy IPA. It is 7:30 AM, our busiest time of the day, and my line is now 10 people deep.
As angry as I am over losing my job, it suddenly dawns on me I get to tell people to get the fuck out while simultaneously demonstrating generosity and benevolence with stolen goods. Whatever corporate leech or VC bros own the inventory on the shelves surrounding me, I figure they won’t send anyone around to collect it until long after these customers and I are gone.
I turn the baked goods case around on the counter with its back door open.
“Help yourself, folks. What else can I get started for you?”
After about 5 minutes I’m having the best time ever. Most customer interactions go something like this:
“Did I hear you say you guys are closing?” “More like someone is closing us.” “Has this been coming for a while? Did you know about it?” “Nope. Just found out myself. Help yourself to something from the cooler on your way out.” “Can I take these flowers,” one woman asks. “Ma’am, I insist.”
But of course it was too good to last. Eventually the douche in the button-down appears next to me at the counter, puts a few fingers on my elbow, and says quietly to my ear that I need to send the customers out of the store and clock out. Paul is standing behind him, looking bored. There’s no fight left to have, and in this sobering moment I realize that if I’m being honest for once, we are bourgeois vs. bourgeois. There’s no struggle here, no injustice, no privation. There will be no uprising, no martyrdom. We are college educated baristas working in a chain of overpriced convenience stores, acting like basic business is denying us our rights somehow.
“Sure, Brian,” I say to the buttons on his shirt. “My name is Sean, act-” “HEY EVERYONE, SORRY, BUT BRIAN HERE SAYS YOU HAVE TO LEAVE. STORE’S CLOSED.”
The collective scoff from the line, which still stretches to the door, is one of the only crumbs of satisfaction I’ll savor in this experience. Most people turn around and leave quickly. One guy grabs a tray of our terrible sushi on his way out, and Sean, Paul, and I all pretend not to notice—our first and final action as a collaborative unit.
“Thanks,” Sean says to me. “I need to make a call while you guys close down and clock out.” “Sure thing, Brian,” I say.
It’s just me and Paul at the counter now. The front door is locked and the closed sign is up. Paul unlocks it every few minutes for an employee to leave.
It’s now 8:15. I’ve had about three beers.
“I’m fucking taking this rosé,” I say to no one in particular, mostly Paul. “Fuck The Man, man. This is… this is the people’s rosé.”
Paul gives me a look that’s a mix of bemusement and pity. He’s a lot older, like 30, and even though we’re not friends, sometimes he treats me like his little brother.
One time my actual older brother walked in while our parents were out of town and I was having a party. Or at least I’d tried to throw a party, but the only people who came were a couple dudes from the newspaper, and we hadn’t been able to figure out the pony keg he scored for us.
I remember him giving me the same look, like I couldn’t even get into trouble right.
“Amen brother. Grab me one too. Then get the fuck out. I’ll text you later. We gotta find new jobs.”
Classic big brother shit.