The Manager Who Sleeps Standing Up

The next day, I walked into the convenience store with the same sense of doom as yesterday.

The automatic doors chimed cheerfully, mocking me.

Round two. Please don’t let me break anything this time.

Miyu was already behind the counter, scanning items with her usual calm efficiency. She glanced up at me, expression unreadable.

“You’re late.”

I checked my watch. “It’s literally two minutes before my shift.”

“Exactly. Late.”

I sighed. So this is how it’s going to be.

"How did you even get here so fast?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." She replied without glancing in my direction.

I was halfway through stocking the shelves when I heard a strange sound from the back room. A low, rhythmic noise.

“Is… someone or something snoring?” I whispered.

Miyu didn’t even look up. “That’s just the manager.”

“The manager?”

“Manager Sato. The man with the unkempt appearance from yesterday.”

I peeked into the storage room. There he was: a man in his thirties, uniform shirt untucked, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His head lolled forward, mouth slightly open. He was actually sleeping while standing up.

I blinked. “Is he even… alive?”

“Unfortunately,” Miyu said dryly.

As if on cue, his eyes snapped open. He yawned, stretched, and shuffled out, holding a cup of instant ramen.

“Ah, the new kid is back again,” he said, voice groggy. “Don’t die on your second day, okay?”

“…That same bar again, why is he surprised he is the one who sets the shift schedule?” I muttered.

Manager Sato leaned against the counter, slurping his noodles while Miyu rang up customers.

“So, kid,” he said between mouthfuls, “what’s your dream?”

“My… dream?”

“Yeah. Everyone’s got one. Even if it’s dumb.”

I hesitated. “I don’t know. I guess… just to survive high school?”

He chuckled. “That’s not a dream. That’s the natural order of life.”

Miyu rolled her eyes. “Don’t listen to him. He says stuff like this all the time.”

But Sato’s gaze was sharper than I expected. “Listen, Ryota. Remember customers are like the weather. Sometimes sunny, sometimes stormy. You can’t control them. But you can decide whether to bring an umbrella.”

I blinked. “…That actually sounded kind of wise.”

“Of course it did,” he said, slurping again. “I’m full of wisdom. And sodium.”

Just when I thought the day might be manageable, disaster struck.

A middle-aged woman stormed up to the counter, waving a receipt. “Excuse me! You overcharged me yesterday!”

My blood ran cold. Yesterday. That was me.

“I I-I’m so sorry!” I stammered. “I’ll fix it right away—”

But before I could panic further, Miyu stepped in. Calm, professional, she checked the receipt, refunded the difference, and even handed the woman a coupon for her trouble.

The customer left, appeased.

I slumped against the counter. “I’m the worst employee ever.”

Miyu smirked. “You’re not the worst. Just… bottom five.”

“Comforting.”

Manager Sato patted my shoulder. “Relax, kid. Mistakes are like spilled coffee. Clean it up and move on.”

“…Do you just compare everything to food?”

“Only the important things.”

Evening hit, and suddenly the store was packed. Salarymen grabbing beer, students buying snacks, and an old lady asking about lottery tickets.

I was drowning.

“Ryota, register two!” Miyu barked.

I scrambled to the register, fumbling with barcodes and coins. A line formed. My palms were sweaty.

“Uh… that’ll be… 3,000 yen?”

“It says 300,” the customer deadpanned.

 Not again.

But then Miyu whispered instructions from beside me, her hands moving with practiced speed. Scan, beep, bag, smile. All while helping me, as the line melted away.

“You’ll get faster,” she said quietly, not unkindly.

I nodded, grateful. For the first time, I realized she wasn’t just teasing me—she was actually helping me survive.

The store finally quieted down. I leaned against the counter, exhausted.

Manager Sato emerged from the back, holding another cup of ramen. “Not bad, kid. You survived to fight another day.”

“Thanks… I think.”

Miyu smirked. “You’re improving. Slightly.”

I looked at her, then at the glowing store sign outside. Maybe this job wasn’t just about pocket money. Perhaps it was about… something else.

As I walked home, Sato’s words echoed in my head. Customers are like the weather. Bring an umbrella.

I wasn’t sure what my “umbrella” was yet. But maybe, just maybe, I’d figure it out here.