It was a crisp Monday morning when Jordan Ellis, the owner of Ellis Eats Diner, stepped out of his black SUV dressed in jeans, a worn hoodie, and a beanie pulled low over his forehead. Usually seen in a tailored suit and designer shoes, today he resembled a middle-aged man, or even a homeless person to some. But that was precisely the intended effect.
Jordan was a self-made millionaire. In ten years, his diner had grown from a simple food truck into a citywide chain. But lately, customer complaints had started piling up: slow service, rude staff, and even rumors of mistreatment. Online reviews had gone from enthusiastic five-star rave to scathing criticism.
Rather than sending in corporate spies or installing more cameras, Jordan decided to do what he hadn’t done in years: walk into his own establishment as an ordinary customer.
He chose his downtown branch—the one he had opened first, where his mother helped bake the pies. As he crossed the street, he felt the hum of cars and early morning strollers. The smell of sizzling bacon hung in the air. His heart raced.
Inside, the familiar red banquettes and checkered tiles welcomed him. Nothing much had changed. But the faces had aged.
Behind the counter stood two cashiers. One, slim, wore a pink apron, chewed gum loudly, and tapped away on her phone. The other, older and plump, had tired eyes and a name badge that read « Denise. » Neither had noticed her when they came in.
He waited patiently for a good thirty seconds. No hello. No « Welcome! » Nothing.
« Next! » Denise finally called out without looking up.
Jordan stepped forward. « Hello, » he said, concealing his voice.
Denise gave him a quick once-over, looking him up and down from his threadbare sweatshirt to his worn shoes. « Yes? What do you want? »
« A breakfast sandwich: bacon, egg, cheese. And a black coffee, please. »
Denise let out a dramatic sigh, typed a few words on the screen, and muttered, « Seven fifty. »
He took a crumpled ten-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to her. She took it, threw the change on the counter without a word.
Jordan went to sit in a corner, sipping his coffee and observing. The restaurant was bustling, but the staff seemed bored, irritated. A woman with two toddlers had to repeat her order three times. An elderly man asking about the senior citizen discount was rudely turned away. An employee dropped a tray and swore loudly enough for the children to hear.
But what suddenly made Jordan stop was what he heard next.
Behind the counter, the young cashier in the pink apron leaned towards Denise and said, « Did you see that guy who just ordered? He looks like he slept on the subway. »
Denise sneered: « I know, right? We’re a diner, not a shelter. Just wait until he asks for extra bacon like he’s loaded. »
They burst out laughing.
Jordan’s hands tightened around his mug. His knuckles turned white. It wasn’t so much the personal insult that hurt him, but the fact that his own employees were mocking a customer—and potentially a homeless person—in this way. These were the people, hardworking and honest, who made up the clientele he had built up to serve. And now, his staff was treating them like dirt.
He then saw a man in work clothes come in to ask for water while waiting for his order. Denise gave him a disdainful look: « If you’re not going to buy anything else, don’t linger. »
That’s enough.
Jordan slowly got up, forgetting his sandwich, and headed towards the counter.
He stopped a few steps from the counter, sandwich in hand. The worker, surprised by Denise’s icy tone, stepped back and sat down in a corner. The young cashier was still laughing as she tapped away on her phone, unaware of the storm that was brewing.
Jordan coughed to attract attention.
None of them raised their heads.
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