Denver, comedy, and Denver comedy

Front of House

     The tornado siren rings, even in the basement.

     Their bodies settle in, fill in the gaps, steer clear of the damp concrete wall. A sweaty arm brushes against a sweaty back.

     The loud man jostles his way over to me. I realize I’m still wearing my apron.

     “I spilled my cappuccino on the stairs.”

     He expects me to say something. I keep my mouth pinched shut. I don’t want to have to deal with this. This should have been my break. I told you to leave your things behind.

     Over his shoulder, I see a bald man hunched over a bagel like a squirrel. Do none of you understand tornadoes?

     The floorboards groan over our heads. Wind howls in the ducts.

     “I’ll be happy to give you a refund.”

     He nods and squeezes between bodies around the basement, trying to find a cell signal.

     I imagine walking back up the stairs. I picture the entire shop being blown away. Only the tip jar is left behind.

     Sirens fill the basement and I’m on my break.