He looked me dead in the eye, a slow, arrogant smirk spreading across his face, and yanked my plug from the wall.
This wasn’t the first time he’d unplugged me, but this time was a declaration of war.
His digital empire, a sprawling mess of laptops and ring lights, was powered by a single, monopolized outlet he treated as his birthright. My own laptop held the future of an inner-city arts program, a grant proposal due in mere hours.
The fury that washed over me wasn’t hot; it was glacial, a cold and focused certainty.
What this self-proclaimed king of the “hustle” didn’t know was that I had already spent the last week quietly rewriting the rules of his kingdom, and his public dethroning was now officially on the agenda.
The Shadow of the Power Strip: The Doctrine of the Daisy Chain
The cursor blinked at me, a tiny, judgmental heartbeat on an otherwise empty page. Section 4b: Community Impact Metrics. The grant for the inner-city arts program was a behemoth, a 50-page beast that could secure funding for three years or leave a dozen talented kids with nothing but shuttered classrooms. My laptop, a slightly outdated MacBook Air, was at 87 percent. It was my lifeline, and the wall outlet next to my small table at The Daily Grind was its aorta.
My gaze drifted across the café. It was my third night here this week, fueled by lukewarm coffee and the desperate energy that only a looming deadline can provide. That’s when I noticed him. He wasn’t just a customer; he was an occupying force. Sprawled across a four-top meant for a family, he had what could only be described as a digital command center. Two laptops, a tablet perched on a stand, a professional-grade microphone, and a ring light that cast a sterile, angelic glow on his face.
The source of his empire was a single, beleaguered wall outlet. From it snaked a thick, black power strip, a techno-squid with at least six glowing appendages feeding his various devices. One cord even ran to a portable air purifier humming softly on the floor. He was a self-contained ecosystem of entitlement, live-streaming to a handful of viewers about the “hustle” and the “grindset.” I was living the grindset; he was performing it.
My husband, Tom, had asked why I didn’t just finish this at home. But at home, there was laundry, a needy golden retriever, and the hypnotic pull of a new season of a British baking show. Here, there was only the low hum of the espresso machine and the unspoken pact of mutual productivity. A pact this guy, with his man-bun pulled so tight it looked painful, was clearly not a signatory to. I took a sip of my coffee, turned back to my screen, and tried to calculate the projected emotional ROI of a child discovering oil pastels for the first time. The blinking cursor mocked me. 86 percent.
The First Disconnect
An hour later, my bladder staged a rebellion I could no longer ignore. I packed my wallet and phone into my coat pocket, leaving my laptop plugged in and sleeping on the table. It was a calculated risk, the urban equivalent of leaving your beach towel on a lounge chair. It’s a place-saver. A sign of intent to return. In the unspoken social contract of a coffee shop, it’s supposed to be sacred.
When I returned, the little orange light on my MagSafe connector was dark. I frowned, nudging the cord with my foot. Nothing. My screen was black. I pressed the power button, and the dreaded low-battery icon flashed once before dying completely. A cold knot of panic tightened in my stomach. I’d lost at least three paragraphs of meticulously crafted jargon about synergistic community engagement.
My eyes followed my useless white cord to the wall. It lay limp on the floor, its magnetic tip gathering dust bunnies. And in its place, plugged directly into the second wall socket, was a new cord—a thick, black one I hadn’t seen before. It snaked its way over to the Power Outlet Emperor’s table, where it powered a second, smaller power strip, this one dedicated solely to charging a bank of external batteries. He had daisy-chained his greed. He hadn’t just unplugged me; he’d colonized my power source to build a strip-mall extension of his existing empire. I stood there, my charger in hand, and stared at the back of his head. He was laughing at something on his screen, completely oblivious. Or, more likely, completely indifferent.
A Territory of Indifference
My first instinct was to tap him on the shoulder and unleash a full, 52-year-old woman’s tirade of righteous indignation. But my throat felt tight. Confrontation wasn’t my strong suit, especially with someone who radiated the kind of unearned confidence that could power a small city. Instead, I did the most passive-aggressive thing I could think of. I unplugged his new power strip and plugged my own charger back in.
The satisfying click of the magnet connecting to my laptop was a small victory. The orange light glowed to life. I watched my screen flicker on, praying the auto-save function was as robust as Apple claimed. As the document loaded, I glanced over at his table. He hadn’t noticed. He was too busy adjusting his microphone, telling his five viewers about the importance of “optimizing your workflow.” The irony was so thick I could have spread it on a scone.
He had claimed the entire four-top, a table clearly marked with a little sign that read, “For Parties of 3 or More.” He’d monopolized the only decent outlet on the wall. And he had, without a moment’s hesitation, disconnected a fellow customer to expand his digital territory. He wasn’t just using the space; he was consuming it. This wasn’t a shared office or a public commons to him. It was his personal soundstage, and the rest of us were just unpaid extras. I felt a low, simmering anger begin to bubble just beneath the surface of my deadline-induced anxiety.
The Seed of a Plan
I managed to rewrite the lost paragraphs and even finish a section on budget allocation before my laptop hit 100 percent. I packed up quickly, not wanting to risk another power outage. As I zipped my bag, I saw him finally notice his secondary power strip was inert. He looked at it, then at my cord plugged securely into the wall, and then his eyes flickered to me as I walked past. There was no apology in his gaze. Not even curiosity. Just a flicker of annoyance, as if I were a squirrel who had momentarily interrupted his divine right to the entire forest’s supply of acorns.
Driving home, the injustice of it all churned in my gut. I wasn’t just mad about the lost work or the dead battery. I was mad at the sheer, unadulterated entitlement. The assumption that his needs, his “hustle,” were so much more important than anyone else’s that basic courtesy was an optional subscription he’d declined.
“You won’t believe this guy,” I said, walking into the kitchen where Tom was reading at the table. I explained the command center, the daisy chain, the casual unplugging. He shook his head. “A real piece of work. Why didn’t you say something to the manager?” I sighed, slumping into a chair. “Because I just wanted to get my work done. I don’t want to be the cranky old lady complaining about the kids and their laptops.” But as I said it, I knew it wasn’t true. I wasn’t cranky. I was furious. That night, lying in bed, I couldn’t sleep. The blinking cursor of my grant proposal was replaced by the smug, glowing ring light of the Power Outlet Emperor. And that’s when the seed of an idea, a petty, beautiful, and deeply satisfying idea, began to sprout.
Rules of Engagement: An Appeal to Reason
The next afternoon, I walked into The Daily Grind with a different kind of purpose. The grant could wait a few hours. I had a new project. I found the manager, Leo, a perpetually tired-looking man in his late thirties with a sleeve of faded tattoos, wiping down the espresso machine.
“Leo, can I talk to you for a second?” I asked, keeping my tone light and friendly. I was a regular. He knew my order—large dark roast, room for cream. He gave me a weary but welcoming smile. “Hey, Mara. What’s up? Need a refill on the house?”
About the Author
