The Story He Told

The Story He Told

Chris showed up twenty minutes late with a gas station coffee and a half-eaten muffin. He stepped into the conference room like he wasn’t already neck-deep in trouble, flashing that grin he’d been using since high school to get out of gym class and failed tests.

“Traffic was a nightmare,” he said, sliding into the empty chair beside Debbie. “Some guy rear-ended a garbage truck. Whole street was a war zone.”

Debbie didn’t look at him. Neither did the three people from corporate sitting across the table with folders labeled Q2 Review. Their silence was louder than any horn Chris might’ve heard on his way in.

Juli, the regional manager, flipped open her binder. “Let’s start, then.”

The meeting was brutal. Sales were down, customer complaints were up, and the Cherry Street location — Chris’ store — was at the bottom of every metric.

He had an explanation for everything.

“Look, the reviews tanked because we had a couple new hires who just didn’t get it. One of them, I swear, thought you could microwave plastic-wrapped sandwiches. I spent half the week training them myself.”

When Juli brought up the inventory issues, he leaned forward like he was about to confess something noble.

“I asked for a second delivery last month, but the system glitched. We ran out of half our grab-and-go stuff for four days. I flagged it. IT said they’d fix it. Not on me.”

Then came the mystery of the missing equipment. A scanner, a tablet, a whole case of promotional items. Gone.

Chris shrugged. “We’ve had guys from other stores ‘borrow’ stuff before. I leave for a day and suddenly our tablet’s in Westgate? That’s not negligence. That’s cross-store freeloading.”

Juli was unmoved. “You’re responsible for what happens at your store.”

“I know,” he said, nodding like he agreed, like he cared. “But come on — some of this is just bad luck.”

After the meeting, Debbie followed him out to the parking lot.

“You know they’re going to fire you, right?” she said.

Chris scoffed. “They wouldn’t do that without a formal warning.”

“You’ve had three.”

He looked away, fiddling with his keys. “Yeah, but those were technicalities. That one in March? I was covering for Erick when the shift logs went missing. Didn’t even happen on my watch.”

Debbie crossed her arms. “Doesn’t matter. Your name’s on it.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, staring at the rust spot spreading on his back bumper like a stain he couldn’t scrub off.

For a second, something flickered in his expression — not anger, not defense. Something quieter. The faint crease between his brows, the way his mouth opened like he was about to admit something… or ask for help. Like maybe, maybe, he knew.

But then he blinked it away. Turned to her, jaw tight again, voice back to cocky.

“You ever think maybe I’m getting set up? Maybe someone wants my store to tank so theirs looks better?”

Debbie shook her head. “You really believe that?”

He hesitated. Then nodded. “It makes more sense than me suddenly being bad at my job.”

She didn’t respond. After a beat, she just walked to her car.

Chris used to be good at this job. Back when the Cherry Street store was new, when they were still hiring shelves instead of stocking them, he’d made a name for himself. Fast with numbers, quick with customers. Corporate had even flown him to a conference in Vegas once. He’d posted a selfie with the VP and captioned it big moves.

Now he was chasing his tail. The store was a mess. He was always behind. But every time something went wrong, he had a reason. A context. A story.

When the opening shift forgot to close out the registers correctly- “They rushed out because I let them go early for a funeral. You want me to punish empathy?”

When a vendor reported unpaid invoices- “That’s accounting’s fault. I submitted everything on time.”

When a customer slipped in the frozen aisle- “Maintenance said they mopped. I didn’t know there was a leak.”

Always someone else. Always something else.

A week later, Juli called. She didn’t mince words.

“We’re removing you as store manager. You can accept a demotion or leave.”

Chris sat at his kitchen table, staring at the same cold coffee he’d poured an hour ago. “You know this isn’t fair, right?”

“I know we gave you a chance,” Juli said. “A lot of them.”

He wanted to argue. Wanted to list all the times he’d worked overtime, cleaned messes no one else saw, stayed late covering shifts no one thanked him for. But he knew how that sounded. Like someone missing the point.

“I’ll think about it,” he said.

She didn’t wait for a follow-up.

He didn’t take the demotion. Told people it was a matter of principle. That he wouldn’t work under someone who couldn’t do half what he could.

He went back to gig work. Delivery apps, task sites, the occasional weekend gig setting up tents for events. Told himself it was temporary. Told himself freedom was worth the pay cut.

But the tips dried up when gas prices spiked. The apps got crowded. His phone was full of screenshots of maps and angry texts from clients.

When he was late delivering groceries to an old woman, she called support. Said he ignored her note about ringing the bell. He’d just left the bags on the curb.

“I didn’t see the note,” he told support. “The app glitches sometimes.”

When he forgot a birthday setup — an actual, full-party tent and table job — he blamed the calendar. “They changed the time last minute. I had the original slot saved.”

His rating dropped. The gigs slowed. His friends stopped asking how he was doing. He figured they were busy.

He told himself a story, like always.

They were jealous. They didn’t understand the pressure. He was doing fine.

One night, Debbie called. She’d left the company six months ago. Moved to a different city. Better job, she said. Less drama.

“I saw Juli at a conference,” she told him. “She mentioned you.”

“Still obsessed with me, huh?”

“She said you were smart. Just not accountable.”

Chris laughed. “Well, at least she remembers me.”

Debbie didn’t laugh.

“C, I’m not calling to rub anything in,” she said. “I’m calling because I keep thinking about that last conversation we had.”

“Where you told me I’d get fired?”

“Yeah. And you told me it wasn’t your fault.”

He leaned back on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

“Well,” he said, “was it?”

There was a pause. Then she said, “That’s the thing. It doesn’t matter if it was. If it always isn’t.”

He sat with that.

“You ever think,” she added, “maybe you’re not unlucky? Maybe you just keep choosing the wrong story to tell yourself?”

He almost hung up. But something in her voice made him stop.

“I should go,” she said. “Take care, Chris.”

He didn’t say anything. The call ended.

Later that night, he sat in front of his laptop. His inbox was full of rejection emails from jobs he didn’t really want. He opened one. Read it. Then another.

They all said the same thing, more or less.

“Thanks for your interest.”

“Strong background, but—”

“We’ve gone with another candidate.”

He almost deleted them. Then he stopped. And opened a blank document.

He stared at it. Then started typing.

Subject- Re-Application for Store Associate Position

Dear Lisa,

I want to be honest. I made a lot of excuses. I thought they were explanations. Maybe they were, at first. But they weren’t helpful. I blamed things instead of fixing them. I was defensive instead of responsive.

If there's still a place for me in the company — even at the bottom — I’d like to start over.

No excuses.

Just work.

Sincerely,

Chris Johnson

He read it twice. Didn’t edit much. Didn’t try to spin anything.

Just hit Send.

And for once, didn’t tell himself how it would all go perfectly.