
The Last Customer
In a diner that's been open since 1962.
What we do for a living, and what it does to us
Shifts, careers, side jobs and the strange intimacy of the people you happen to work beside.
The clock is a character in almost every one of these.
One man's grocery run, one family's monthly arithmetic, and the quiet collapse of the six-figure promise.

Work is filed on weekdays because that is when it happens. We are less interested in careers than in shifts — the hours themselves, and the people you end up standing beside for years without ever visiting their house.
What does the job do to the person doing it?
Clocks, breaks, closing procedures, the last hour.
Accidental intimacy with people you did not choose.
What the work takes that no one lists in the offer.

In a diner that's been open since 1962.

For a growing number of people, a full-time job is the thing they do before the other job.

The rise and quiet disappearance of the discount store that anchored a thousand small towns.

A personal essay about getting the thing, and then handing it back.
The clock is a character in almost every one of these.
Filed weekdays
Reported pieces and short fiction
Wages named, hours counted
No hustle, no productivity
Stories about the ordinary things that mean the most.