The break room door swung shut behind me, muffling the chaos of the sales floor. I slumped into a plastic chair, the cheap cushion offering all the comfort of a park bench. One of the ones they make purposefully uncomfortable so homeless people can’t sleep on them. My sad excuse for lunch—a slightly squashed peanut butter sandwich and an apple that had seen better days—sat on the table before me.

I unwrapped the sandwich, the bread sticking to the wax paper. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, somehow even more oppressive than those on the sales floor. A faint smell of burnt microwave popcorn lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of desperation that seemed to permeate every corner of Zap's Electronics.

"Living the dream, eh, Stanley?"

I glanced up to see Mike from the Tech Squad, heating up some unholy concoction in the microwave.

"Oh yeah, just another day in paradise."

He chuckled, shaking his head as he stirred his steaming mess of noodles and... was that tuna? Jesus Christ, man. I tried not to gag.

"Heard about your little adventure with the shoplifter. Tough break, man."

I grunted, taking a bite of my sandwich. The peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth, a fitting metaphor for how I felt trapped in this job.

"Yeah, well, you know me. Always trying to be the hero."

Mike snorted. "More like trying to get yourself fired. You're lucky Linda didn't can you on the spot."

I didn't bother responding. Mike meant well, but right now, his voice was just another grating noise in a day full of them. He shrugged at my silence and wandered off, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my pathetic lunch.

I pulled out my phone, desperate for some distraction. A notification from my banking app caught my eye. Maybe this day wasn't a total loss after all. It was payday, and the thought of my measly paycheck hitting my account was the one bright spot in this shit show of a Friday.

I tapped the app, waiting for it to load. Error message. Of course. I tried again. Same result. The familiar knot of dread formed in my stomach as I forced myself to check my account balance.

Empty. Not a single cent deposited.

"Fuck me," I muttered, resisting the urge to hurl my phone across the room.

This song and dance was all too familiar. The curse of Stanley NULL Oakes strikes again. I closed my eyes, remembering the day I discovered the clerical error that had plagued me for twenty-five years.

It had started innocently enough. My parents, in their infinite wisdom, had decided not to give me a middle name. No big deal, right? Wrong. Somehow, in the vast and incomprehensible realm of hospital bureaucracy, that absence of a middle name had morphed into the word "NULL" on my birth certificate.

Stanley NULL Oakes. A name that looked like a coding error, because essentially, it was.

I'd tried to fix it, God knows I'd tried. But every attempt to navigate the labyrinthine process of correcting official documents had only resulted in more confusion, more errors, more headaches. It was like my very existence was a glitch in the system, and no one knew how to debug it.

Banks, schools, the DMV—anywhere that relied heavily on computer systems seemed to have a meltdown when confronted with my name. Credit card applications mysteriously vanished. College transcripts got jumbled. And now, apparently, my paycheck had been swallowed by the void.

I took another bitter bite of my sandwich, mulling over the cosmic joke that was my life. Here I was, surrounded by cutting-edge technology every day, and I couldn't even get a computer to recognize my name correctly.

The break room door swung open, and Linda poked her head in. Her eyes narrowed when she saw me.

"Stanley, your lunch break ended five minutes ago. We need you back on the floor."

I glanced at my phone. She was right, but only technically. I had clocked out late because of the shoplifter incident.

"Linda, I just sat down. And I'm having an issue with my paycheck—"

She cut me off with a wave of her hand. "Sort it out later. We're swamped out there, and I need all hands on deck."

The door closed behind her before I could protest. I stared at my half-eaten lunch, debating whether to finish it or just cut my losses. In the end, hunger won out. I scarfed down the rest of the sandwich and pocketed the apple for later.

As I stood to leave, Mike reappeared, empty bowl in hand.

"Back to the trenches, huh?"

I nodded, my mood somehow even darker than before.

"Hey, at least it's Friday, right?" He grinned, clearly trying to cheer me up. "Got any big weekend plans?"

I let out a humorless laugh. "Oh yeah, big plans. Working Saturday and Sunday, because apparently, I hate myself."

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Mike winced sympathetically. "Ouch. That's rough, man. But hey, at least you're getting paid for it, right?"

The irony was almost too much to bear. I just shook my head and headed for the door.

"Yeah, sure..."

I pushed back onto the sales floor, the cacophony of customer complaints and electronic demos washing over me like a wave of auditory sewage. The next few hours stretched before me, a gauntlet of entitled customers and malfunctioning gadgets.

And waiting at the end of it all? Not a paycheck, but another battle with faceless bureaucrats who couldn't comprehend that my name wasn't a computer error. I plastered on my best fake smile as I approached the customer service counter. Time to dive back into the fray, armed with nothing but my wits, my dwindling patience, and the persistent gnawing of hunger in my gut.

"Welcome to Zap's Electronics," I called out to the next person in line, "how can I help make your day more frustrating?"

The middle-aged woman looked taken aback. Shit. Had I said that last part out loud?

"I mean, how can I assist you today?"

As she launched into a tirade about a toaster oven that refused to toast, I let my mind wander. Maybe I could hit up the ATM after work, see if I could sweet-talk some cash out of it. Or maybe I'd just go home, nuke a frozen dinner, and lose myself in some mindless sci-fi show.

I nodded mechanically as the woman prattled on about her defective toaster oven, her words blending into the ambient noise of the store.

"...and then it started smoking! Can you believe it?"

"Uh-huh," I mumbled, my attention split between her and my internal monologue. "Have you tried adjusting the darkness setting?"

Maybe I could legally change my name. Something simple, like John Smith. Basic enough that no computer would choke on it.

The woman's face reddened. "Of course I tried that! Do I look like an idiot?"

I bit back a sigh. "No, ma'am. Just covering all the bases."

But then again, knowing my luck, the name change paperwork would probably get lost in the system. Or worse, I'd end up registered as John NULL Smith.

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" she demanded, shoving the toaster across the counter.

I examined the appliance, noticing the telltale signs of user error. "Ma'am, it looks like you may have set it to 'broil' instead of 'toast'."

What if I went off the grid entirely? No more bureaucracy, no more computer systems. Just me, living in the woods.

“No, I don’t think that’s the problem. I really think it’s defective and it needs to be replaced.”

I started to argue her, but why? Why the hell do I care? It’s not like Zap’s gives me an extra bonus on my paycheck for preventing erroneous returns. I’m bending over backwards to save a gigantic multi-billion-dollar company a few dollars here and there, meanwhile no one in HR can even guarantee I’ll get my paychecks every week.

“You know, ma’am. You’re absolutely right. This thing’s broken. I’m going to replace it for you.”

“And maybe upgrade me to a nicer model for my trouble?”

I broke completely.

“Yes, of course.”

I turned on my heel, muttering under my breath as I pushed through the swinging doors into the back of the store. The stockroom stretched before me, a maze of shelves crammed with electronics.

"Alright, where are you hiding, you glorified bread warmer?"

I weaved through the aisles, scanning labels and dodging precariously stacked boxes. The smell of cardboard and plastic filled my nostrils.

After what felt like an eternity of rummaging, I finally spotted a toaster that fit the bill. Sleek, stainless steel, with more buttons than any sane person would need to char a piece of bread. Perfect.

I snagged the box and made my way back to the sales floor, steeling myself for another round of customer appeasement. As I pushed through the doors, something felt... off. The usual cacophony of beeping devices and chattering customers had vanished, replaced by an eerie silence.

My eyes remained fixed on the toaster box, focusing on the task at hand. Just get through this return, then I can deal with whatever new fresh hell awaits me.

"Alright, ma'am," I said, placing the box on the counter. "This model has much better specs and features. It's got a bagel setting, defrost function, and even a little screen that tells you how toasted your toast is. Bet your old one couldn't do that, huh?" I tapped a few keys on the register, processing the return. "Okay, that's all set. Is there anything else I can help you with today?"

The lack of response finally registered. I looked up, expecting to see the woman's smug face. Instead, I found myself staring into eyes as lifeless as the electronic displays surrounding us. The woman stood perfectly still, her mouth frozen mid-word, a look of indignant entitlement etched permanently on her face.

"Uh... ma'am?"

I waved a hand in front of her face. Nothing. Not even a blink. I leaned over the counter, scanning the store. Every customer, every employee – they were all frozen in place like some twisted, life-sized diorama.

"What the actual fuck?"

I came out from behind the counter, my legs shaky as I approached the nearest group of customers. A family of four, caught mid-argument over which gaming console to buy. The father's face was red with frustration, his finger pointed accusingly at a price tag. The kids were tugging at their mother's sleeves, their mouths open in silent pleas.

"Hey!" I shouted, snapping my fingers in front of their faces. "Can you hear me? Anybody?"

Silence. Not even the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.

I moved from person to person, desperately trying to provoke a reaction. I clapped, I yelled, I even considered slapping someone before thinking better of it.

Nothing worked.

My breath came in short gasps as panic began to set in. This couldn't be happening. Maybe I was dreaming. Or having some kind of stress-induced hallucination.

I approached a teenage boy near the cell phone display. He was frozen mid-selfie, his arm extended, holding his phone at the perfect angle.

"Okay, buddy," I muttered. "Let's see if we can snap you out of this."

I placed my hands on his shoulders, intending to give him a gentle shake. But as I applied pressure, I might as well have been trying to move a statue made of solid steel. The kid didn't budge an inch.

I pushed harder, throwing my whole body into it. Still nothing. It was like he was anchored to the ground by some invisible force.

"Christ," I whispered, stumbling backward. "What the hell is going on?"

My pulse raced as I stumbled back to the front counter, gripping the edge to steady myself. This couldn't be real. There had to be an explanation.

The light switch. Maybe if I...

I reached for the panel behind the register, flicking the switches on and off frantically. Nothing. The harsh fluorescent lights continued their steady, unblinking glow.

"Come on, come on," I muttered, my fingers dancing across the switchboard like a demented pianist. Still nothing.

My phone. I needed to call for help.

I fumbled in my pocket, nearly dropping the device in my haste. The screen flickered to life, but as I punched in 9-1-1, my heart sank. No signal. Not even a single bar.

"Fuck!"

The store phone. It had to work. I snatched up the receiver, the plastic cool against my sweaty palm. The familiar dial tone should have been reassuring, but its absence sent a chill down my spine.

I jabbed at Linda's extension anyway, praying for a miracle. Silence. Dead air.

"Linda!" I shouted. "Anybody! This isn't funny!"

Only the eerie quiet of the store answered me.

My eyes darted to the front entrance. I'd been avoiding it, some primal part of my brain warning me that whatever lay beyond those automatic doors was something I didn't want to face.

But I had to know.

On shaky legs, I approached the exit.