“ADA, baby,” she said with a smirk, waving her break card as she disappeared into the back. Fifteen minutes later, I saw her outside, laughing on her phone, sipping a soda she didn’t pay for.

I didn’t say anything. What would be the point? Management doesn’t care. The customers don’t care. Keisha gets her breaks. I get my silence.

By the time she came back, the lines were worse. She clocked in, leaned on the counter, and said, “You look tired, Evan.”

I nodded, swallowed the lump in my throat, and whispered, “Yes, friend. This is fine.”

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5630766&forum_id=2...id.#48314416)

Meanwhile, I was drowning. The line at my register stretched halfway through the store. Kids screaming, customers shoving, carts overflowing with cheap holiday junk.

As I rang up another cart of Christmas inflatables, the front door chimed. Keisha strolled back in, holding a greasy takeout bag. She plopped it on the counter next to me, smiling wide.

“Hey, Evan. Grabbed myself some lunch. You want a fry?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Man, I love these ADA breaks. I’d die without ‘em.”

I didn’t look up. Didn’t respond. Just kept scanning, my fingers moving mechanically across the keypad.

But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it: a single sheet of paper tucked into the side of her takeout bag. Stamped at the top, bold and official: Clause 9.2.

Keisha winked and whispered, “Friend, you’re next.”

I nodded slowly, my hands trembling as I whispered back, “Yes friend. This is fine."

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5630766&forum_id=2...id.#48358970)