New Lanyard Energy

A handheld DOC CREW slips past rolling racks and overflowing donation bins. Fluorescent hum. A crooked sign reads: “BREAKROOM (NO RETURNS).”

A PRODUCER (O.S.)

We were told the breakroom runs the store.

The door swings open—

Cramped. Beige walls. A microwave with tape that says “DON’T.” A coffee pot that should be a crime scene. Four mismatched chairs—one is a padded office chair with duct tape “THRONE” on the back.

JO LENE RUSK (30s, deadpan queen of small power) slides into the THRONE like a bartender taking her spot. She sets her employee lanyard on the table with reverence.

Welcome to my stool.

A beat. GRANT PELLIK (late 20s, earnest, rule-adjacent) freezes mid-vending-machine shake.

It’s… a chair.

In a bar, they call it a stool. In a breakroom, they call it—

—morale infrastructure.

YVETTE MORROW (early 30s, precise, weaponized calm) enters, clocking everything. MIGS HALPRIN (20s, chaotic gremlin) trails behind, holding a thrifted mug that says WORLD’S BEST UNCLE.

Is there a reason the only chair with lumbar support has a monarchy label?

“Throne.” That’s aspirational.

It’s been mine since before corporate replaced our staplers with “staple experiences.”

That’s not a thing.

It’s on the training video. In the subtitles. I paused.

Grant steps toward the THRONE.

If a documentary crew is here, we should… present fairness. Like, as a culture.

JOLENE leans back—creak—eyes daring him.

Touch my stool and you’ll be shopping here with a name tag that says “Hello, I’m Seasonal.”

Seasonal is a threat in this economy.

Yvette opens the mini-fridge. It moans.

I don’t care who sits where. I care that this room functions.

And right now, “function” has padding.

Grant looks to the DOC CREW like a man begging the universe for a referee.

Okay. Okay. We do this right.

We need a system.

We have one. It’s called seniority and vibes.

Migs plops onto a folding chair. It immediately pinches him.

My chair is actively judging my thighs.

A system prevents conflict.

Conflict prevents boredom.

Grant grabs a marker and a piece of cardboard ripped from a donation box labeled “ASSORTED MYSTERY CORDS.”

We’re writing a seating constitution.

Oh my God. New lanyard energy.

CUT TO TALKING HEAD - BREAKROOM CORNER

Grant, framed too close, trying to look official.

I read half of a book about the Constitution in high school. We can do this in fifteen minutes.

CUT TO TALKING HEAD - BY MICROWAVE

Jolene, arms crossed, THRONE behind her like a witness.

Grant’s been here six days. He still says “good morning” like it’s legally binding.

Grant tapes the cardboard to the wall. He writes in big letters:

“BREAKROOM SEATING CONSTITUTION (DRAFT)”

Article One: The Throne— sorry, the “Office Chair”— is for all employees, equal access.

Amendment One: No.

Grant underlines “equal access” harder, like pressure makes truth.

Add time limits. Rotations. Enforceable.

Add duel rights. If two people want the chair, they must—

—fight with pool noodles.

No weapons.

Pool noodles are emotional weapons.

Jolene stands, dramatic, like she’s leaving a toxic marriage.

Fine. Let’s do your little democracy. But I’m telling you: the chair chooses the sitter.

She places her lanyard on the THRONE again, like a ceremonial claim.

Grant scribbles.

Article Two: Claiming the chair with personal items is prohibited.

Jolene slowly lifts her lanyard.

This isn’t personal. This is professional.

It’s literally my job.

Yvette stands, approaches the wall, takes the marker from Grant with surgical authority.

New rule. If you want the padded chair, you must provide one of the following:

“1. A completed task for another coworker.

2. A fresh pot of coffee.

3. A verified customer save.”

Customer save?

When a customer is about to ask “Do you have this in the back?” and you intercept them before they make it your problem.

Heroism.

Grant lights up.

Yes! Merit-based seating!

Jolene stares at the list. Then—

She strides to the coffee pot, dumps the existing sludge, rinses it with two drops of water, fills it, clicks ON.

The machine gurgles like it’s being revived against its will.

Fresh pot.

Yvette checks. Steam. It counts. She nods, begrudging.

Jolene sits back in the THRONE with a satisfied exhale.

JOLENE (CONT'D)

Welcome to governance.

Migs leaps up.

I can do a customer save right now. Watch this.

He cracks the breakroom door open. A CUSTOMER’S VOICE floats from the sales floor.

CUSTOMER (O.S.)

Excuse me— do you have—

Migs SLAMS the door gently but firmly. A muffled “Hello?” outside.

Saved.

Grant looks horrified. Yvette looks impressed against her will.

That’s… technically a save.

Grant writes it down, faster now, intoxicated by rule-making.

Article Three: The Chair Points System. Coffee equals one. Task equals two. Customer save equals three.

And what does insulting Grant equal?

Grant pauses.

JOLENE (CONT'D)

Because I do it for free.

CUT TO TALKING HEAD - BY VENDING MACHINE

Migs, whispering like it’s scandal.

If we quantify the chair, we can monetize the chair. If we monetize the chair—

—we can become ungovernable.

Yvette steps back, surveys the cardboard constitution like it’s a treaty.

We need signatures.

Grant pulls out a thrift-store receipt pad like it’s sacred parchment.

Everyone sign. For legitimacy.

Jolene signs with a flourish: JOLENE RUSK (underlined twice). Yvette signs neatly. Migs draws a tiny cartoon chair with flames.

Grant signs last, proud.

The DOC CREW zooms in: “BREAKROOM SEATING CONSTITUTION.”

A beat of fragile peace.

Then the microwave BEEPS on its own. Everyone stares at it.

We didn’t even plug it in today.

Jolene leans back in the THRONE, calm as a captain.

The breakroom knows.

And now it has laws.

TITLE CARD: SECONDHAND BREAKROOM

Audio under black: the CUSTOMER outside again, louder.

CUSTOMER (O.S.)

HELLO? DOES ANYONE WORK HERE?