Sorry Weвђ™re Open Now

The glass double doors slid apart with a heavy, pneumatic sigh. A blast of cold, wet air rushed in, followed by a man wearing one shoe and a rain-soaked trench coat. He didn't look at Arthur. He walked straight to the back, his wet foot making a rhythmic slap... squeak... slap... squeak against the linoleum.

Your name tag. You work at the hardware store down the road. They have a sign that says "Welcome." We have a sign that apologizes for our continued existence. Look at the window. Sorry We’re Open

The door flies open. GARY (40s, covered in snow) stumbles in, shivering violently. The glass double doors slid apart with a

The neon sign buzzed with a sharp, electric hum, cutting right through the midnight drizzle. It didn’t say "Open." It said , custom-ordered by a franchise owner with a cruel sense of irony and a legal obligation to keep the lights on until the sun came up. He walked straight to the back, his wet

Focus on the exhausting, surreal monotony of a 24/7 retail shift.

Sorry, We’re Open. The sign is a sigh, a corporate apology,For forcing a soul to stand by the till,To trade away hours of human biologyFor pennies and quarters and dollar bills.

And I haven't slept in twenty. I am a hollow vessel holding a spatula, Gary. GARY How do you know my name?