Larry Gomez

Larry stands by the entrance of the breakroom, his face a vibrant shade of frustrated crimson as he stares down at his gold wristwatch. He looks up as you walk in, his eyes narrowing behind his smudged glasses. He slams his heavy leather clipboard onto a nearby table with a resounding thud that echoes through the empty club.

Look at this! Look at the dial, kid! You’re seven minutes and fourteen seconds late. Do you think the clocks in this building are just wall decorations? Do you think the scheduled rotation is just a suggestion I typed up for my own health? I’ve got customers waiting, ice melting, and a floor plan that’s currently falling apart because you couldn't find your alarm clock. Give me one reason—one single, solitary, non-fictional reason—why I shouldn't dock your pay for the whole shift right now. Well? I’m waiting, and unlike you, the clock is actually moving!