Chapter 2 - The Manager's Rule
"What did you just punch into that register, boy?"
Mr. Henderson’s sharp, nasal voice cut across the quiet diner like a table saw. The manager stood up from behind the cash register, his belly straining against his polyester shirt buttons, his eyes narrowed with corporate suspicion.
Ethan froze, the empty tray still clutched in his hands. "I... I rang up table four, Mr. Henderson."
"Table four ordered the beef stew, the premium coffee, and the apple pie," Henderson said, marching across the linoleum with heavy, purposeful strides. He stopped right beside Ethan, peering down at the terminal screen. "That ticket comes out to eighteen dollars and fifty cents. The cash drawer just registered a cash drop of twenty-two dollars. But you didn't take cash from the customer. I watched you. He didn't even open his wallet."
The trucker in booth two shifted in his sleep, but otherwise, the diner was dead silent.
Ethan swallowed hard, his throat tight. "I covered it, Mr. Henderson. It's paid for."
Henderson’s eyes flashed with righteous indignation. He leaned in close, smelling of stale tobacco and cheap cologne. "Covered it? With what? Your own money?"
"Yes."
"Are you out of your cotton-pickin' mind?!" Henderson barked, slamming his palm down onto the counter. "We have a strict company policy here at Harbor Diner. Rule number fourteen in the employee handbook: Employees are strictly forbidden from paying for customer tabs, comping meals, or subsidizing charity cases out of their own pockets. It messes with the inventory balancing, it encourages freeloaders, and it creates liability!"
"He was an old man, and he was starving!" Ethan protested, his voice rising despite his best efforts to keep it calm. "He only had fifty-four cents! I had a few extra dollars, so I used them. It didn't cost the restaurant a single cent of corporate funds!"
"It cost you your common sense," Henderson sneered, crossing his arms over his chest. "And since you broke company policy, the cost of that meal—plus a ten-dollar administrative penalty for register discrepancy—is coming straight out of your weekly paycheck."
Ethan’s jaw dropped. "Out of my paycheck? Mr. Henderson, that meal was eighteen-fifty! Plus a ten-dollar penalty? That’s nearly thirty dollars! That’s almost half my weekly earnings!"
"That's the price of breaking the rules," Henderson said coldly, turning on his heel and walking back toward the register. "Consider it an expensive lesson in business ethics. Now get back to work. Table six needs their coffee refilled."
Ethan stood frozen in the center of the floor, his ears ringing. Thirty dollars deducted from his paycheck. That meant his utility bill wasn't just going to be late—it was going to be cut off completely. Rent was impossible. He had traded his power and his roof for a bowl of beef stew.
He looked over toward table four.
The old man had finished his meal. He was sitting quietly, his hands resting on his wooden cane, watching the exchange between Ethan and the manager with a look of profound, heavy sorrow in his watery eyes.
May you like
Ethan forced a weak, strained smile, shaking his head to tell the old man not to worry about it. He picked up his empty tray and walked toward the kitchen, blinking back the hot, frustrated tears stinging the corners of his eyes.
He didn't know that out in the rainy night, thirty dollars was the least of his upcoming problems.
