“I’ll take a breakfast sandwich. Bacon, egg, cheese. And a black coffee, please.”
Denise sighed dramatically, tapped a few buttons on the screen, and muttered, “Seven-fifty.”
He pulled a crumpled ten-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to her. She snatched it and slapped the change on the counter without a word.
Jordan sat down at a corner booth, sipping his coffee and observing. The place was busy, but the staff looked bored, even annoyed. A woman with two toddlers had to repeat her order three times. An elderly man who asked about a senior discount was waved off rudely. One worker dropped a tray and cursed loud enough for children to hear.
But what made Jordan stop cold was what he heard next.
From behind the counter, the young cashier in the pink apron leaned over and said to Denise, “Did you see that guy who just ordered the sandwich? He smells like he’s been sleeping in the subway.”
Denise chuckled. “I know, right? Thought we were a diner, not a shelter. Watch him try to ask for extra bacon like he’s got money.”
They both laughed.
Jordan’s hands tightened around his coffee cup. His knuckles went white. He wasn’t hurt by the insult—not personally—but the fact that his own employees were mocking a customer, let alone a potentially homeless one, cut deep. These were the kinds of people he had built his business to serve—hardworking, struggling, honest people. And now, his staff was treating them like garbage.
He watched as another man—wearing a construction uniform—came in and asked for water while he waited for his order. Denise gave him a dirty look and said, “If you’re not buying anything else, don’t hang around.”
