Inside, the diner looked much the same: red vinyl booths, checkered floors, and chrome edges reflecting the morning sunlight. Yet the warmth, the friendliness that had defined it, was gone. Two cashiers stood behind the counter. One, a young woman in a pink apron, scrolled through her phone while chewing gum. The other, Denise, older and tired-eyed, barely lifted her gaze.
“Next,” Denise muttered when Jordan approached.
The staff wasn’t busy—they were indifferent. A mother repeated her order three times, ignored. An elderly man asked about a discount and was brushed off. One employee muttered a curse after dropping silverware.
Then he heard their whispers.
“Did you see that guy ordering the sandwich? Looks like he’s been living in a tunnel,” the young cashier said.
Denise snorted. “This isn’t a charity. Bet he complains about the price too.”
They laughed.
It wasn’t that they thought he was homeless. It was that anyone who seemed vulnerable or less wealthy received no respect.
When a construction worker, dusty from a morning shift, politely asked for water, Denise snapped, “If you’re not buying more, don’t loiter.”
That was the last straw.
“Customer service number’s on the receipt,” she said flatly.
“I’m not calling customer service,” he replied. “I’m asking if this is how everyone is treated—or just those you assume have no money.”
The young cashier crossed her arms. “You’re exaggerating.”
