Let me tell you something.
It gets cold in Michigan. Like, stupid cold. Like, “Lots of people die in this kind of weather, and you might, too, if you don’t get your stupid ass into a heated area or put on more clothes,” cold.
I mean, don’t get me wrong: Michiganders (we are actually all geese; did you know that?) are pros at dealing with and giving the middle finger to cold weather. Shorts still come out, barbecues are had, car windows are down. But that doesn’t stop it from sucking hardcore, especially if you don’t necessarily have some place to go.
It’s on one of these fine (read: cold as hell) winter nights that I’m working a closing shift with my supervisor. This guy, I want you to keep in mind, has just transferred from another store. The chain we work at is a fan of shuffling key holders every so often. So it’s Derek’s first night closing at a new location.
Things are going hunky dory and we’re all set to close on time at 9 pm on the dot. But as anyone who has worked retail knows, right before closing is usually when shit hits the fan.
It is no different tonight.