Fiction: The Starbucks suicide shift (part 1)

                                  I walked into a chain neighborhood coffee shop in the dead afternoon. The sleepy capped baristas and instructed audio set the scene. Evil corporate propoganda,.. wear this and expect that. Shove enthusiasm into the void,..and by god try to love what you hate,..Cash in on the scene,...with espresso beans. Try our new product ,..your gonna love it I guarantee it. Now where's the valium fot the comedown.
                                I walked into the sunlit dumpster area  on the side of route 309. The shade of the trees on  the filled garbage bags made me sad,. that the forty hours weeks of my life showed no signs of letting up. Something had to give, and it would.  I took a ten minute break and sat back in my cheap uncomfortable chair. I took of my hat,..ran my dirty fingernails through the grease of my hair and stared blankly at my black hat resting upon my soiled apron. The black hat with the Starbucks logo did not stare back,..but rather smirked with an ancient wisdom. It would prevail long after my existence. Plastic and cockroaches would survive the next World War ,..but I wouldn't. My break was over and it was back to the hours of  drive-thru communicative headset devices. "Yes,.I'll take a Grande decaf soy trpple latte with 1% milk.",.....her voice. The soccer mom with the kids screaming in the backseat of the minivan,.who hides her wrinkled eyed beneath the cover of her supermarket shades,..Finally six hours into the shift there was the daily four p.m. lull in between customers. I leaned over the ice tea counter and put my fingertips to my temples in disgust. There would be retail,..and more......Inventory upon monotony. Customer service was king around here,... and now,.. banished forever,. upon the black- listed unemployed. Formerly a shift supervisor,.. now, well probably something similar.,.but hopefully better.        
                        A struggling man in his late twenties residing in a dingy basement efficiency attempts to get out of bed then trips over his stereo chords. Walks five feet over to the fridge and pulls out a Miller lite then sits back down on the bed. Scratching his bedbug bitten head he attempts to recapture and play out the trauma of the previous day. Cracks open the beer and searches for his cellphone somewhere among the wreckage of his filthy bedsheets. Time to call work and give them a fresh excuse as to why I won't be coming in this evening.  "Yeah hello this is Tyler,...yeah I'm actually not gonna be coming in today,..it'll be slow anyway,...well I have to check into the hospital for a coupla days,....I'll keep you posted". Then placing his phone on the coffeetable next to the fridge he searches for his anxiety medication. Realizing the reality of his present situation of days upon  days,.. he sits back down on the foot of his bed,... wipes a tear from his eyes and downs the whole bottle. Stands up and removes his belt,..."I'm not gonna be needing this where I'm going",..he thinks to himself.  TO BE CONINUED.