The guy behind the counter at the coffee place seemed nice enough. That was until I placed my order. Then he had the look of one of my kids telling me they had put a fresh dent in the car. There was disappointing news coming, I could feel it.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, glancing at Wilson next to me, maybe for support. “But I can’t make that right now.”
I nodded. “Going on a break or something, huh?” I asked. “No problem. Maybe one of your colleagues can handle it. It’s simple enough, right?”
“Not really. We’re out of mocha syrup at the moment,” he said.
Wilson exhaled, his shoulders slumping. He was going to go for an iced version of the same drink.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll take a medium coffee then. Not a big deal. I’m flexible.”
The kid grimaced and shook his head.
“Yeah, I can’t do that either,” he said.
“What, you’re out of coffee too?” I asked, getting agitated. “It’s a coffee house, right?”
“It is, sir. It is,” he said. “But, well, we’re out of cups.”
“You’re out of cups?” I asked, loud enough to draw attention.
Wilson let out an “oomph” like he has taken a shot to the gut.
The kid reached under the counter and came out with a sleeve of the little sample sized Dixie cups.
“All we have are these,” he said.
“For what, the urine test?” I asked.
“Seventeen of them are equal to a medium cup of coffee,” he said, trying to help. “I think three are the same as an espresso, if you want that.”
I looked at Wilson. He shrugged.
“It’s the supply chain, sir,” the kid said.
“Ah, yes,” Wilson said, as if it all made sense. “The supply chain.”
We left the place, passing up the offer of seventeen mini cups of coffee to go.
“Now what?” Wilson asked. “No coffee. And I still need lunch before we head to the airport.”
“Let’s try Cluckers,” I said. “They have a new crispy chicken sandwich I’ve been wanting to try.”
We hustled over to the local chicken joint, which was oddly quiet for lunchtime. We received the usual enthusiastic greeting as we approached the counter.
“Cluck, cluck,” the young gal yelled, “welcome to Cluckers.”
“Little slow today, huh?” I asked, as I was about to order.
“That’s because we have no chicken,” she said, as if it were an everyday occurrence.
“No chicken?” I yelled.
She glanced over her shoulder at the kitchen, then said, “Well, we have like one piece left.”
“I’ll take the spicy chicken sandwich,” Wilson blurted out.
“Hey,” I said.
“Would you like our special sauce on that?” the gal asked, poking the register. “Fries and a drink?”
I looked at Wilson. He shrugged. “I’ll split it with you,” he said.
I watched the gal put together Wilson’s order, especially the part where she reached for the medium drink cup.
“Excuse me,” I said, “how about putting an extra cup in there seeing how me and my so-called friend here are going to split everything.”
Wilson nodded and said, “Ah, I see where you’re going with this.”
“I’ll have to charge you for it,” she said, “we’re low on cups.”
“Fine, whatever, just tack it on to the order.”
She yelled back to the kitchen. “How much for a cup today?”
“What size?” someone yelled back.
“Medium.”
“Eleven,” came the response.
I watched the little digital display flash the order and price and put my hands on the counter to keep from collapsing.
“That will be $47.13,” she said, matter of factly.
“Eleven bucks for the cup?” I asked.
She nodded.
“And thirty-three for the meal special,” she said, “spicy chicken sandwich, signature sauce, fries and a drink.”
“We’re definitely splitting this,” Wilson said, taping his card to pay.
I looked at the gal and she read my confusion.
“Supply chain issues,” she said.
“Of course,” I said.
We hustled back over to the coffee shop and I thrust my eleven-dollar empty drink cup at the guy.
“Fill ‘er up,” I said. “No room for nothing. Just coffee.”
He took the cup and examined it like it was an ancient artifact.
“This doesn’t look like one of our reusable cups,” he said, frowning.
“That’s because it’s not,” I said. “Coffee please.”
He was shaking his head now. “Yeah, I’m sorry, even if it was one of ours, it has to be clean. See this speck here on the inside?”
I grabbed the cup blew into it and the speck disappeared. I thrust the cup back at him.
“Coffee. Now.”
He nodded and filled it, wisely understanding the gravity of the situation.
We had our lunch, and our coffee, and grabbed our carry-on luggage from the office and off we went to the airport. In front of the terminal it looked like one of the old-time disaster movies where everyone was trying to get out of town at the same time. Ubers and cabs were parked haphazardly, and people wheeling suitcases raced inside.
We pushed our way into the terminal and hit a wall of people. A guy with a megaphone came by, sweat pouring down his face.
“Current wait time to the security checkpoint is twenty-three hours and nine minutes,” he yelled.
There was grumbling and cursing that almost drowned out the overhead announcement.
“All TSA staff including custodial, accounting and administrative report to checkpoints immediately.”
The megaphone guy was coming our way again. He had the look of someone who sat too much and slept too little.
“What’s the hell is going on?” I asked.
“Not enough workers to handle the travel crush,” he said. “I was in accounting ten minutes ago when I was ordered to help. All they gave me was a little card with a script to read and told me to get going.
Off he went yelling into the megaphone, squinting as he read from his little cue card.
“Please be ready to take your clothes off as you approach the checkpoint. I’m sorry, shoes. Shoes. Please be ready to take your shoes off. Please keep your clothes on.”
I looked at Wilson. He nodded and said, “Supply chain issues.”