Before I was able to set the new answering machine down, the Manager—a frumpy, middle-aged masturbator with hair oil leaking into his polo collar—leaned into Sean’s ear and (loud enough for me to glean) said that if he didn’t straighten out the dot matrix printer display before closing, he’d lose his weekend hours and no lunch breaks. My knuckles whitened. I felt my gut froth with nuclear rage. I wanted to chew this manager’s nose off and spit it into the register drawer.
