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.
(Gasping)Thank god. I thought I was going to freeze to death out there. My car spun out two miles back. Are you serving? Todd doesn't move. He slowly shifts his eyes to Gary. TODD (Sighs heavily)Yeah. We are. Unfortunately.
The door flies open. GARY (40s, covered in snow) stumbles in, shivering violently. Sorry We’re Open
And I haven't slept in twenty. I am a hollow vessel holding a spatula, Gary. GARY How do you know my name?
I can give you the coffee. But if you look at the menu, you might find something you want to eat. And if you order food, I have to cook it. And if I cook it, we both have to prolong this interaction. GARY I haven’t eaten in ten hours! I’m starving! Your name tag
The glass is cold, fogged by the breathOf those who have nowhere else to go.The neon buzzes a magenta death,Reflecting pink on the parking lot snow.
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. Look at the window
The scanner beeps a rhythmic chime,A digital pulse in a graveyard space.We sell the illusion of stopped-clock time,But the fluorescent light lines every face.