TumbleDweeeb

Episode 1: The Tube Socks, the Pipe, and the Snickers Thief

The late afternoon lull at Marty’s Quickmart always gives me a false sense of security. It’s that deceptive hour between the lunch rush and evening commuters when I think I might actually get to restock the shelves in peace. I should know better by now.
    I’m halfway through organizing the candy aisle when I hear a weird scraping sound near the door. The automatic doors slide open, and instead of the usual footsteps, there’s a strange sliding sound against the linoleum. I peek around the Twizzlers display to investigate.
    A man in his thirties is gliding—actually gliding—across the floor in nothing but a button-down oxford shirt, white briefs, and tube socks. His sunglasses are indoors-inappropriate, and he’s using a mop handle as a pretend microphone. The radio has just started playing Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock and Roll,” and this guy is in his element.
    “Take those old records off the shelf!” he lip-syncs dramatically as he slides past the refrigerated section, executing a perfect spin by the energy drinks.
    I recognize the Tom Cruise movie reference immediately. Risky Business—my mom’s favorite film from her teenage years. Except this version is middle-aged, slightly pudgy, and performing in a convenience store rather than an empty mansion.
    He spots me and grins, sliding directly toward the counter with surprising grace for a man not wearing pants. Customers at the coffee machine stare open-mouthed, coffee pots frozen mid-pour.
    “Good afternoon,” I say with practiced retail neutrality. “Can I help you find anything? Perhaps some pants?”
    “Just need cigarettes!” he announces, still dancing in place. “Camel Non-Filter. Oh, and this is for a bet. My high school reunion is this weekend, and my buddies said I wouldn’t do it.” He points to his phone propped up by the beef jerky. “They’re watching the livestream.”
    I get his cigarettes, trying not to make eye contact with either his bare legs or his phone camera. “That’ll be $12.47.”
    He hands me his credit card with a dramatic flourish, he kind of moonwalks, mostly just shuffles, away.
    “Have a nice day,” I call after him, because what else do you say to a pantsless man buying cigarettes on a livestream?
    I’m still processing this encounter when customer number two approaches. She must be at least ninety, with a cloud of white hair and oversized bifocals that magnify her eyes to owl-like proportions. Her floral dress reaches her ankles, and her purse is roughly the size of a small suitcase.
    “Excuse me, dear,” she says in a voice like crumpling tissue paper. “I’m looking for a special item.”
     “What can I help you find?” I ask.
    She leans in conspiratorially, though she doesn’t lower her voice at all. “A pipe. A glass one. Colorful, if you have it.”
    We do, in fact, sell glass pipes, tucked behind the counter in our “tobacco accessories” section, though everyone in town knows that’s not what they’re primarily used for. I show her our selection.
    “Oh, this one is perfect!” she exclaims, pointing to a swirled blue and green pipe that’s one of our more expensive models. “It matches my collection!”
      “Your… collection?” I can’t help asking.
    “My Indian knickknack collection,” she says proudly. “I have dreamcatchers and those little carved statues, you know? This will look lovely displayed with them. The colors are just divine.”
    I ring up her purchase, wondering if she genuinely thinks it’s a decorative item or if Grandma has some hobbies her family doesn’t know about.
    “My grandson is coming to visit next week,” she continues, digging through her enormous purse for her wallet. “He’s always talking about ‘cultural appreciation’ this and ‘appropriation’ that. I think he’ll just love my collection. So authentic.”
    I place the pipe in a small paper bag and hand her the receipt. “Enjoy your… decoration.”
    “Thank you, sweetie. You know, back in my day, we appreciated other cultures by collecting their trinkets. Now everyone’s so sensitive!” She totters toward the door, pipe in hand, already envisioning it on her shelf next to what I can only imagine are the most stereotypical Native American souvenirs from 1950s gift shops.
    The radio DJ switches tracks, and suddenly Eminem’s “My Name Is” fills the store with its distinctive beat and irreverent lyrics. As if summoned by the rebellious tone of the music, I notice him—teenage boy, maybe fourteen, nervous-looking, wearing a hoodie despite the hot weather. He’s been circling the candy aisle for ten minutes, occasionally glancing my way to see if I’m watching.
    I am, of course. After four years at Marty’s, you develop a sixth sense for shoplifters.
    He bobs his head slightly to the rhythm, mouthing along to the part where Eminem introduces himself to the audience, seeming to draw courage from the rap song playing overhead. The teen makes his move when I’m ringing up another customer—quick hand into the pocket, Snickers bar disappearing into his hoodies pocket. I finish the transaction and make my way toward the door, planning to just ask him to pay for it rather than make a big scene.
    “Excuse me,” I call as he reaches the exit. “I think you forgot to pay for something.”
    He freezes for a split second, then whirls around, face contorted with a teenager’s desperate attempt to look tough, the Eminem track providing an all-too-appropriate soundtrack to his attempted rebellion.
    “Hi, my name is—” he starts, mimicking the song’s infamous line, before switching to his own words: “—none of your business, fuck off bitch!” The insult is clearly unfamiliar in his mouth. His voice cracks on “bitch,” undermining the effect he’s going for.
    Before I can respond, he’s bolted through the doors and is sprinting across the parking lot, Snickers bar falling out of his pocket in his haste. I watch him disappear around the corner of the strip mall, leaving the stolen candy bar melting on the hot asphalt.
    I sigh, heading outside to retrieve the abandoned chocolate. Not worth chasing him down over a dollar-fifty candy bar, but I’ll recognize him next time. They almost always come back.
    Just another day at Marty’s Quickmart—the tube-socked dancer, the pipe collector, and the failed candy thief. Three hours until closing, and who knows what else might walk through that door.