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 My laptop, a slightly outdated MacBook Air, was at 87 percent.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?”
“Not today, thanks,” I said. “I wanted to ask about your policy on outlets.” I didn’t mention the Emperor. I didn’t make it personal. That was rule number one of my plan. This had to be about fairness, not feelings. “I’ve just noticed that sometimes it gets a little… competitive. Especially at night. One person can end up taking over a whole power source with strips and things, and other people can’t get their work done.”
Leo sighed, a deep, world-weary sound. He ran a hand through his messy hair. “You’re telling me. I had two finance bros almost come to blows over the outlet by the window last week. One of them accused the other of ‘power-source piracy.’ I don’t have an official policy. It’s a coffee shop, not the UN. I just hope people will be decent human beings.” He gestured around the café. “As you can see, that’s not always a winning strategy.”
The Art of Persuasion
This was my opening. “Well,” I began, pulling a folded piece of paper from my purse. “I used to manage a non-profit space, and we had a similar issue. We just came up with a simple, clear set of guidelines. It actually cut down on arguments and made my job way easier.” I handed him the paper.
He unfolded it and read aloud. “‘The Daily Grind: Shared Space Courtesy.’ One, outlets are for active charging of one primary device. Two, to ensure access for all, personal power strips and extension cords are not permitted. Three, please limit your stay during peak hours to allow others a chance to work. Thank you for helping us keep this a great space for everyone.’”
He looked up at me, a glimmer of something like hope in his tired eyes. The language was gentle but firm. It wasn’t accusatory. It was collaborative. I’d used all my grant-writing tricks: stakeholder-focused language, positive framing, a clear call to action. I was proposing a solution, not just dumping a problem in his lap.
“This is… really good,” he said, tapping the paper. “It’s simple. It’s fair. It makes me the enforcer of a clear rule, not the referee in a slap-fight between adults who should know better.” He looked at me, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Mara, you might have just saved me from a future aneurysm.” I smiled back, a surge of adrenaline making my hands tingle. The plan was in motion.
A Sign of Things to Come
Two days later, I walked in and saw them. Leo had printed my little policy on nice cardstock and placed the signs in small acrylic holders. There was one on the counter by the register, and, most beautifully, one on the small shelf directly above the coveted outlet cluster by the back wall. It was official. It was the law of the land.
I felt a giddy sense of accomplishment, like I’d just passed a piece of landmark legislation. I bought my coffee, found a small table, and got to work. The Emperor wasn’t there, and for a blissful ninety minutes, I hammered out the entire methodology section of my grant proposal. The words flowed. The air felt lighter. The coffee tasted richer.
Just as I was packing up, he walked in. My heart gave a little thump against my ribs. He did his usual slow scan of the room, his eyes assessing the real estate not for seating, but for power. He zeroed in on the four-top and the outlets next to it. He set his backpack down, completely ignoring the new sign that was literally inches from his face, and began to assemble his command center. My plan was ready. The trap was set. Now, all I had to do was wait for him to walk into it.
The False Calm
For the next week, our paths didn’t cross in the way I’d anticipated. He was there, of course, a permanent fixture at his four-top. He’d even acquired a second ring light. But his power strip remained coiled in his bag. He was using a single plug for a single laptop, like a civilized person. He still took up too much space and spoke too loudly into his microphone, but the core offense, the power piracy, had ceased.
Had he seen the sign? Had he, against all odds, decided to respect the newly established rules of this small society? A part of me was relieved. The grant deadline was now just days away, and the lack of conflict was good for my productivity. I was almost finished, weaving together the final narrative threads of the proposal.
But another, darker part of me was disappointed. I had forged a weapon and was being denied the chance to wield it. The rage from that first night had cooled into a hard, dense nugget of resentment in my chest. I wanted the confrontation. I wanted the satisfaction of seeing his entitlement crumble against the unyielding wall of a laminated sign. Tom said I was spending too much time thinking about it. “Just be glad the problem is solved,” he’d said. But I knew it wasn’t solved. The Emperor hadn’t changed. He was just biding his time, waiting for the moment when his needs would once again outweigh the flimsy social contract. And I would be ready.
The Unplugging: The Emperor Returns
It was the final night. The grant was due at 9 a.m. the next morning. All that was left was the final proofread, a meticulous, caffeine-fueled journey through 50 pages of budgets, metrics, and heartfelt appeals. This was not a task for my kitchen table. This required the monastic focus of The Daily Grind. I arrived at 7 p.m., my laptop bag feeling heavy with the weight of my impending deadline.
And there he was. Not just present, but in full bloom. The beast was back. The giant power strip was out, its black tentacles feeding his dual laptops, his ring light, his microphone, and his air purifier. He hadn’t just broken the rule; he’d shattered it, ground it into dust, and was probably using it to fertilize his ego.
He was in the middle of a live stream, gesticulating wildly. “You have to be relentless!” he preached to his audience of, according to the counter on his screen, fourteen people. “You have to claim your space in this world! Don’t ask for permission. Act like you belong, and the universe will bend to your will.”
The universe, in this case, was a tired barista named Chloe and a handful of customers trying to read or work. I found a table nearby, the only one left. It shared the same outlet cluster. I plugged in my charger, the little orange light a beacon of hope, and opened my laptop. The final battle was at hand. 98 percent. Let the proofreading begin.
The Second Strike
For the first hour, there was a tense peace. I was deep in the weeds of my own prose, hunting for typos and awkward phrasing. He was deep in his own world, pontificating about crypto-investing or some other nonsense. I was so focused that I barely registered the moment I stood up to get a glass of water from the self-serve counter. It was an automatic, thoughtless act.
Just like last time, I was gone for less than two minutes. And just like last time, I returned to a dark screen. The orange light on my charger was gone. I looked at the wall, and my cord was lying on the grimy floor. His main power strip was still in one socket. But now, my socket was occupied by the charger for his phone. He hadn’t just unplugged me for more gear; he’d done it for something as trivial as a phone charge, while his main power station was still humming along.
I saw red. A hot, blinding flash of pure rage. All the frustration of the grant, the exhaustion of the late nights, the slow-burning resentment toward this man—it all coalesced into a single, sharp point. I picked up my charger, unplugged his phone without a flicker of hesitation, and slammed my MagSafe connector back into the wall socket. The click was loud in the quiet café. I sat down, my heart hammering against my ribs, and watched my screen come back to life. I didn’t look at him, but I could feel his eyes on me.
The Line in the Sand
The air between our tables grew thick and heavy. I could feel his stare, a physical pressure on the side of my face. I refused to look up from my screen, pretending to be engrossed in a paragraph about outreach strategies. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him lean over, his man-bun bobbing. He was looking at the outlet, at my cord, then at his own unplugged phone charger in his hand.
He let out a short, sharp sigh of performative disbelief. It was a sound designed to be heard, to signal to the world that he was the aggrieved party. He mumbled something to his live stream, probably about “dealing with haters” or “low-vibrational people” who didn’t understand the hustle.
I kept my eyes glued to my document, but my entire consciousness was focused on that little patch of wall. My knuckles were white where I gripped the edge of my table. This was it. The moment of truth. My plan, my rage, the laminated sign—it had all led to this. I could feel him shifting in his chair, a predator gathering itself to strike. I held my breath, waiting. The cursor blinked. Blink. Blink. Blink.
The Gauntlet Thrown
I saw his hand move. It was a deliberate, almost slow-motion gesture. A hand clad in a fingerless glove, because of course it was. It reached down toward the outlet cluster. With a flick of his wrist, he yanked my charger out of the wall. The light on my connector died. My screen, which I’d forgotten to save in the last ten minutes, went black.
That was it. The dam broke. I didn’t yell. I didn’t gasp. A strange, icy calm washed over me. I reached down, picked up my cord, and plugged it back in. The orange light returned. I looked directly at him. Our eyes met for the first time. His were filled with a kind of smug, challenging amusement. Mine, I imagine, were chips of flint.
My voice was low, perfectly steady, and devoid of any emotion except a cold, hard finality.
“Touch it again.”
It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t a plea. It was a promise. He held my gaze. A slow, arrogant smirk spread across his face. He actually chuckled, a small, condescending puff of air. He turned to his webcam. “You see this? Some people just don’t get it. First come, first serve. It’s the law of the jungle, folks.”
And then, while still looking right at me, he reached down and pulled my plug.
The Reckoning: A Quiet Signal
The rage that filled me wasn’t hot and explosive. It was glacial. A vast, unstoppable force of cold, clear fury. He had done it. He had looked me in the eye and, with a smirk, crossed the line I had so clearly drawn. His arrogance was a monument, and I was about to become the wrecking ball.
I didn’t say another word to him. He was no longer part of the equation. He was the problem, and I was the solution. I slowly, deliberately, raised my hand. Not in a frantic wave, but in a calm, firm gesture. Across the room, Chloe, the young barista with the septum piercing and the perpetually bored expression, was wiping down a portafilter. Our eyes met.
I didn’t have to mouth any words. She had seen the whole thing. The unplugging, the re-plugging, the quiet ultimatum, and the final, defiant act of douchebaggery. A flicker of understanding, and maybe even grim satisfaction, crossed her face. She gave a single, sharp nod, put down her cloth, and disappeared into the back room. The Emperor, meanwhile, was preening for his camera. “And that’s how you handle obstacles,” he said, plugging his phone charger into the now-vacant socket. “You just… remove them.” He had no idea what was coming.
The Reading of the Law
A moment later, Leo emerged from the back, Chloe a step behind him. He looked even more tired than usual, but there was a set to his jaw I hadn’t seen before. He walked directly to our little corner of the café.
“Is there a problem here?” Leo asked, his voice neutral.
The Emperor immediately launched into his defense. “No problem, man. Just this lady trying to bogart the outlet. I was here first. I’ve got my whole setup, my stream. It’s first come, first serve. Basic economics.” He gestured at me as if I were a mildly inconvenient piece of furniture.
I didn’t say a word. I simply lifted my finger and pointed. I pointed past the Emperor’s self-satisfied face, past his ridiculous ring light, to the small acrylic sign perched on the shelf directly above the outlet. The sign he had ignored for over a week.
Leo’s eyes followed my finger. He cleared his throat and, in a voice loud enough for the entire café to hear, he read from it. “‘The Daily Grind: Shared Space Courtesy.’ Rule number one: Outlets are for active charging of one primary device.” He paused, his eyes flicking to the Emperor’s multi-headed power strip. “Rule number two: To ensure access for all, personal power strips and extension cords are not permitted.”
A silence fell over the café. A few people lowered their books or looked up from their laptops. The Emperor’s smug expression began to curdle into confusion. “What? That’s a new rule. That’s… that’s ridiculous.”
“It’s been there for ten days,” Leo said flatly. “And this is the second time tonight I’ve seen you unplug another customer’s device, which falls under the general heading of ‘not being a decent human being.’ Which is rule number zero.”
The Dethroning
The Emperor sputtered. “I need this! This is my job! You can’t just—”
He was cut off by a simple, beautiful, world-altering sound. *Click.*
Leo had leaned down and pressed the red reset button on the Emperor’s main power strip. Instantly, his entire empire went dark. The ring light died, plunging his face into the café’s normal, unflattering light. Both of his laptop screens went black. His microphone’s power indicator vanished. His air purifier whirred to a stop. His live stream, with its fourteen loyal disciples, was dead.
The look on his face was a masterpiece of sputtering disbelief. His mouth opened and closed like a fish. “You… you can’t do that!”
“I can,” Leo said, his voice calm and final. He unplugged the power strip from the wall. “You’ve violated a posted policy multiple times after being given a clear, non-verbal warning by the other customer. You can pack up your equipment and move to a non-outlet table if you’d like to stay. Otherwise, you’re welcome to leave.”
He was a king whose throne had just been summarily repossessed. He stared at Leo, then at me. If looks could kill, I would have been a pile of ash. He started shoving his gear into his oversized backpack, muttering about one-star Yelp reviews and the death of entrepreneurial spirit. The entire café was watching, and no one looked sympathetic. The quiet judgment was more damning than any shouting match could ever be.
The Spoils of War
As the defeated Emperor slung his heavy backpack over his shoulder and stomped toward the door, a smattering of quiet applause broke out from a few of the other tables. He shot a final, venomous glare in my direction before shoving the door open and disappearing into the night.
I took a deep, shuddering breath. The glacial rage receded, replaced by a warm, deeply satisfying calm. I reached down and plugged my laptop in. The orange light was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
A moment later, Chloe appeared at my table. She placed a plate with a large, warm blueberry muffin on it. “This is on the house,” she said, a genuine smile finally breaking through her bored facade. She also set down a small, three-foot extension cord. “And Leo said to give you this. Just in case you ever get stuck next to a black hole of neediness again.”
I looked at the muffin, then at the extension cord, then at my laptop screen, which was now glowing at a healthy 12 percent. I had my power back. I had my space back. And I had a complimentary muffin. The final hour of proofreading wasn’t a chore. It was a victory lap. I hit “send” on the grant proposal at 10:47 p.m., the taste of sweet, petty justice and warm blueberries still on my tongue. The silence in the café had never sounded so good.
About the Author
