MIDDLE MANAGEMENT - MATT BATES
At exactly 10:01 a.m., one minute past the official opening time of Mel’s Skate Shop, I flipped the sign from "CLOSED" to "OPEN" with all the enthusiasm of someone walking to their own execution.
I had been promoted to manager a week ago—something I hadn’t exactly strived for, but rather something that had happened to me, like puberty or a pop quiz. I was seventeen, tall and wiry, with a mop of brown curls that perpetually made me look like I had just stuck a fork into an electrical socket. The thought of having to tell people, my friends, what to do made my stomach flip, but my boss, Mel, had insisted. “You’re reliable, kid,” he’d said, as if that were a compliment rather than a deeply unfortunate trait.
“I know I can put you in charge. I know you think its cool to pretend you don’t care, but deep down I know you do, kid.” Mel said as he handed me a set of store keys.
I am unsure why but Mel’s trust in me perked me up, however I couldn’t let him know that. “You know I am going to burn the place down, right?”
“No. No, you won’t. I know it.” Mel patted me on the back. “I am taking the day off. We got some shipment coming in later today. Remember to lock up at the end of the night. Jake and Deb should be here later this afternoon to help.”
“I feel super unprepared. What if a swarm of bee’s decides to take over the store? Or, a mysterious blob rolls in and eats everyone and everything in its path?”
“Although both of those situations are highly improbable, I have no doubt in your managerial reflexes kicking in to make the right decision. Later, kid!”
Mel left slamming the door behind him, the bell attached at the top chimed as it does every time to let us know someone has entered or left the store. Damn, bell.
The store, a dimly lit haven for teenagers and adults who still wore Vans unironically, sat in the heart of the Springfield Mall—a place that had all the charm of an abandoned parking lot. It has been on a downhill decline since Macy’s decided to move to the other side of town, leaving a boarded up, giant, empty, boxy building at the busiest end of the mall. The air smelled faintly of old food court pizza, and the only other occupied storefront was a nail salon that doubled as a VHS rental depot. Who still rented VHS tapes was beyond me but to each their own. Every morning, I unlocked the shop with the same dread one reserves for dentist appointments or tax season. I couldn’t imagine telling the other employees, my friends, what to do.
I’d barely had time to settle in behind the counter when the first customer arrived: a twelve-year-old with a face full of freckles and an expression that suggested he’d either just discovered skateboarding or had been dared to enter by his friends.
“Do you guys sell those, like, hoverboard things?” he asked, wide-eyed.
I took a slow breath. “We’re a skateboard shop.”
“But, like, no, hoverboards?”
“You mean an electric scooter?”
“No, like, you float around on them and they have lights on them and stuff.”
I held up a skateboard. “This. This is what we sell. We sell skateboards and skateboard stuff.”
“Oh,” he said, visibly deflating, as if he’d just realized I wasn’t about to hand him a golden ticket to Wonka-land. He left without another word, which, frankly, was the ideal customer interaction. I liked talking to people about skateboarding and building skateboards; not talking to nerd kids.
By noon, the other two employees—Jake and Deb—had arrived. Jake, nineteen and permanently on the verge of quitting, was only here because Mel paid him under the table. Deb, sixteen and alarmingly good at her job, worked here because she actually enjoyed it, it was kind of inspiring, but I’d never tell her that.
“You get any weirdos yet?” Jake asked, slouching behind the counter. His entire aura suggested he had emerged fully formed from a pile of flannel shirts.
“Just the usual,” I said. “People who think we sell hoverboards. Someone who asked if we do skateboard rentals, like we’re a rental car company. Oh, and a guy who wanted to return a skateboard ‘because it didn’t work.’”
“What does that even mean? Did he try to put it up his ass?” Deb asked.
“He wouldn’t elaborate, but his arm was in a sling so I am guessing he ate shit trying to do an Ollie or grind a rail. Just kept saying ‘it’s broken’ and demanding a refund. He left after I offered to call mall security.”
Deb nodded. “So, a normal day of jerkoff customers.”
It was at this moment that our store’s biggest menace arrived: Todd. Todd was in his late forties and had the energy of someone who had been politely asked to leave multiple family gatherings. He came in at least three times a week to talk at us about “the good old days” when skateboarding was “real.” His actual purchase history? A single pack of grip tape equating to $4 of revenue.
“You kids don’t even know,” Todd began, leaning dramatically on the glass counter. “Back in my day, we didn’t have all these fancy boards with ‘technology.’”
I nodded, as I always did, while Deb subtly slipped into the back room. Coward.
“Skating was raw, man. We skated empty pools, we skinned our knees, and we liked it.”
I was about to point out that, we still skinned our knees, but Todd had already moved on.
“You ever think about how this generation’s just soft?”
“Oh, constantly,” I said. “Sometimes I wake up in a cold sweat just thinking about it.”
Todd squinted at me. “You being smart with me?”
“Not at all. You were saying something about real skateboarding?”
Satisfied, Todd launched into a monologue about “kids these days” and their “TikTok tricks,” while I contemplated if throwing myself into the mall fountain would be enough for me to close the store.
At some point, Jake reappeared with a box of inventory and interrupted with, “Hey, boss, should I put these new decks out or keep them in the back?”
The word “boss” sent a chill down my spine. It was unnatural. Like calling a goldfish “Captain.”
Before I could answer, Todd turned his attention to Jake. “Y’know, back in my day—”
“I’m gonna stop you right there,” Jake said. “Gotta restock. Real busy, Todd. As interesting as you are I’d rather eat broken glass.”
Todd, momentarily thrown off, muttered something about “corporate America” before slinking out the door.
“That was brutal,” I said.
“I think I aged five years and my heads on fire,” Jake replied.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of disinterested window shoppers and one kid who tried to steal a set of wheels by shoving them in his cargo shorts. It didn’t work. Cargo shorts are the natural enemy of subtlety.
By closing time, I was exhausted, and my faith in humanity had dropped another two notches. I flipped the sign back to "CLOSED" and sighed, already dreading tomorrow.
“You’re getting the hang of this,” Deb said, locking up the register.
I looked around at the half-empty store, at Jake yawning like he’d just completed a marathon, at the faint lingering scent of Todd’s energy drink.
“I think that’s the problem,” I said.
