Coffee Micro Bar

Alcohol bars are passé and I’m not a kid anymore. I’ve got a seat at the neighborhood micro coffee bar. After a hard day at the grind—which is every day—I need a distraction. And a chance to commiserate with the other hard luck cases in the other eight seats.

I’ve got seat number 3 and the 7:00 pm to 8:00 pm slot, seven days a week. I’m old enough to remember when people didn’t work Saturdays or Sundays. Back then, people had weekends free. Hard to imagine. But, hey, they even had a minimum wage in those days. Simpler times.

Still, nowadays I feel pretty fortunate. I’ve got my seat at the bar. I can get away from work and forget about my family and my responsibilities and I can clear my head. The coffee bartender understands me, or at least she’s polite enough to pretend she does.

After twelve hours on the receiving end of command and control management, I get my hour of bliss. The coffee is good. Really good. The seat is comfortable. The company is grumpy but empathetic. What’s not to like?

Louie says that the Managers at headquarters don’t even need us. Our work is easily automated and we’re actually useless. They keep us around and give us busywork to keep us occupied. And that the Managers need people to serve them so the bigwigs can feel important.

I dunno. I’m too tired to think about it. It’s time to take a Percocet and go home. With a little luck, the wife and kids are already asleep.