The Benefits of Being Broke
I get laid more as an unemployed loser than I ever did when I had my shit together.
Thirty minutes to close, and the vape shop smells like someone bottled anxiety and called it “Mango Ice Sunrise.” I’m polishing the same fingerprint‑smudged display case for the fifteenth time, looping through it like a broken NPC. Every swipe of the microfiber cloth is more about survival than cleanliness. I’ve got a half‑flat energy drink stashed in the back room, and I’ve been taking secret gulps like it’s cough syrup in a Dickens novel.
Customer count is down, but the ones left are the worst kind—wandering in just to complain. One guy waves a nicotine bar at me like I manufactured it personally.
“This isn’t hitting,” he says, accusatory, like I’ve robbed him of his last lungful of joy.
“Have you tried charging it?” I ask, knowing damn well it’s as dead as I am inside. He blinks slowly, like I’ve asked him to solve a riddle.
The woman in oversized sunglasses (indoors, at night—like a threat) demands a refund for something she can’t even show me and insists I “look it up in the system.”
“There is no system,” I mutter, more to any God who’d smite her.
I’m mid‑eye roll when my phone buzzes. The Boss. I duck into the back room—aka storage closet with delusions of grandeur—and answer on the third ring.
“Hey, just a heads up,” he says in that tone that means it’s not a heads‑up at all, “Don’t bother coming in tomorrow.”
No “sorry,” no “it’s not personal.” Just straight to the curb like human waste.
I stammer, “Wait—what?” but he’s already on to liability concerns over my “jellyfish‑shaped vape ring,” which apparently qualifies as a combustible event. Then click. Call ends. No warning. No severance. Not even a fake “best of luck.”
I stand there for a beat, surrounded by off‑brand juice cartridges and a poster of a guy blowing clouds like he’s summoning dragons. I reach for that last gulp. It’s warm—tastes like battery acid and broken dreams. And because the universe is nothing if not spiteful, I knock it over. Critical hit: my wallet. Soaked. Twenty‑seven bucks and a bent debit card now smell like Electric Blue Raspberry.
I fish it out and stare at it dripping in fluorescent light. Just then, the bell jingles:
“Hey, are you guys open or what?”
I walk out with an eye twitching, like a junkie who can’t find his vape.
“Just wrapping things up in the back.”
And there she is—Robin: regular customer, whiskey‑neat evangelist, chaos in a faded denim jacket. She tilts her head.
“You look like you just lost custody of your life.”
“About that—I’m officially unemployed. Apparently, my vape tricks are a workplace hazard.”
She raises an eyebrow, slides a Google Maps pin across the counter: a bar a few blocks away.
“Unemployment drink. My treat. And don’t say you have work in the morning.”
I glance at my hands—still shaking from caffeine and shame—and half‑smile.
“You’re weirdly good at crisis response.”
“You were always a layoff risk,” she shrugs.
I hand back her phone like I’m signing a contract I don’t remember agreeing to, thinking: sure. Let’s toast to rock bottom. As she leaves, I Google “how to fake gratitude when your soul has a headache.”
10:06 p.m., and I walk into the bar like a man who just discovered his new hobby is applying for food stamps in pajama pants. The music’s loud enough to discourage honest conversation, but not loud enough to drown out your thoughts. I pause at the door, give myself the once‑over. I look like a fired barista who lost a fight with a vape kiosk. Perfect.
Robin’s perched at the bar, legs crossed, swirling whiskey like she’s auditioning for a cigarette ad that doesn’t exist anymore. She clocks me and grins.
“There he is—our very own nicotine menace.”
“Was this formal?” I mutter, sliding onto the stool. “Would’ve worn my nicer failures.”
She hands me a drink—pre‑ordered, because apparently I give off “I’ll take what I’m given” energy now. It’s strong, sour, unapologetic. Like Robin, if she were a cocktail.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say.
“Oh, I know,” she waves off my humility like a bad smell. “But it’s either this or you going home and giving a TED Talk to your ceiling fan.”
“You just enjoy watching the unemployed unravel.”
“Only the cute ones.” She clinks her glass against mine.
We drink in loose silence. She tells me about a coworker who micro‑dosed on a work retreat and ended up crying in a kayak. I laugh when I can and resist Googling “can you eat depression?” Robin’s banter keeps me from sinking.
At one point, she flicks lint off my shoulder.
“You’ve got a real sad‑prom‑king thing going tonight.”
“Thanks. I was going for ‘recently laid‑off mall security guard who maybe dreamed of art school.’”
Round two slides over. I pretend I’ll pay, but she cuts me off: “Don’t insult me.”
I sip slowly. Afraid if I finish it too fast, I’ll admit, “I don’t know what I’m doing with my life.” She reads it anyway and taps her glass.
“To fresh starts—even the dumb, unplanned kind.”
“To being politely fired before hitting thirty,” I reply.
“That’s the spirit,” she grins.
By the end, the bar’s thinning. The music softens. Sadness settles under the table like a stray cat. Robin stands, smooths out her jacket.
“Alright, that’s enough wallowing for one evening.”
She leans in, a quick hug—just enough to remind me I exist, not enough to mean anything more.
“You’ll be fine. Or you won’t. Either way, you’re someone else’s problem tomorrow.”
I trudge to my truck, brain fogged on secondhand sympathy and cheap bourbon, and stare at the wheel like it might offer life advice. After ten minutes of freaking out thinking it was stolen, I remember it’s broke down in my buddy’s driveway and I borrowed his Rav 4. And it’s dark grey, because everyone in America owns a dark grey Rav 4 now.
Free drinks. Half compliments. No job.
But hey—my bar tab’s covered.
That’s what I call real employee benefits.