TumbleDweeeb

Behind the Counter: Saturday Night Specials

Saturday nights at Marty’s Quickmart have their own unique rhythm. The parade of weekend partiers, desperate parents needing diapers, and late-night snack hunters creates a chaotic energy that makes my shift both exhausting and entertaining.
   The radio plays Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On,” the smooth melody filling the store with an atmosphere that makes me roll my eyes. Marty’s ancient radio always seems to know exactly what’s happening at the counter.
   I’m organizing the lottery tickets when Officer Daniels strolls in. He’s in civilian clothes—jeans that look fresh from the package and a button-up shirt with cologne wafting several feet ahead of him. He pretends to browse the chips before making his way to the counter.
    “Evening, Jennifer,” he says, leaning against the counter in what I assume he thinks is a casual pose. “Busy night?”
    “The usual Saturday chaos,” I reply. “What can I help you with?”
   He glances around, confirming no other customers are within earshot. “I need some, uh…” he clears his throat, “protection.”
   I nod professionally and gesture to the condom display hanging on the wall behind me. Marty’s brilliant idea to prevent shoplifting now means I have to be personally involved in every contraceptive purchase.
     “Any particular kind?” I ask, turning to scan the options.
   Officer Daniels steps closer, his cologne now nearly overwhelming. “What would you recommend?”
   There it is. The question I dread most in this job, especially when accompanied by that specific tone and raised eyebrow. Marvin Gaye’s suggestive song isn’t helping the situation.
     “They all serve their basic purpose,” I say neutrally. “Any specific features you’re looking for?”
     “Well,” he says, leaning even closer, “what do you prefer?”
     “I prefer not to discuss my personal preferences while I’m working,” I reply, keeping my face professional but firm.
   Officer Daniels laughs a little too loudly. “Always so serious, Jennifer. I’m just looking for some advice from someone with good taste.” His eyes flick briefly to my name tag, then decidedly lower.
     “The ribbed ones are popular,” I say flatly, reaching for a mid-range box.
   “Wait,” he says, touching my arm lightly. “Maybe I need to give you more context. I’m actually free tonight, and I was thinking, when does your shift end?”
     “My shift ends when we close,” I say vaguely, stepping back slightly. “So about these condoms—”
   “I could wait,” he suggests. “There’s a decent bar down the street. Or I make a mean breakfast, if you’d rather skip right to tomorrow morning.”
   I maintain my professional smile while mentally calculating how many times I’ll need to reroute if he starts patrolling near my apartment.
   “That’s flattering, Officer Daniels, but I don’t date customers.” Or people who can write me traffic tickets, I add mentally.
   While he’s distracted by my rejection, I reach under the counter where we keep first aid supplies. I grab a finger cot—those tiny rubber sheaths meant for protecting injured fingers—and slip it into my palm. It looks exactly like a miniature condom.
     “So how about these?” I ask, holding up a regular box of condoms.
   He seems disappointed by my return to business but nods. “Sure, those are fine. And add these too.” He places a bottle of baby lotion, a Dr. Pepper, and a bag of pork rinds on the counter.
   I ring up his items, subtly slipping the finger cot into his bag while bagging everything.
     “Last chance,” he says as I hand him his change. “I make killer French toast.”
     “I’m more of a pancake girl,” I reply with a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Have a good night.”
     “Your loss,” he says with a wink. “Maybe next weekend.”
   As he leaves, I make a mental note to switch my grocery shopping to the store in the next town over.
   The door has barely closed when the radio transitions to Queen’s “Fat Bottomed Girls,” its boisterous celebration perfectly coinciding with the entrance of my next regular.
   I’ve privately nicknamed her “The Size Queen”—not for any bedroom preferences, but for her pathological obsession with king-sized candy bars. Tonight she’s dressed for what appears to be a date, in a dress that’s just a touch too formal for our small town.
   “Jennifer!” she exclaims, making a beeline for the candy aisle. “Thank goodness you’re working! I have a dinner date in thirty minutes, and I need emergency chocolate for my purse!”
   She returns moments later, clutching a king-sized Snickers in one hand and a king-sized 3 Musketeers in the other, her expression suggesting this decision rivals any currently before the Supreme Court.
   “I’m completely torn,” she says, placing both bars on the counter. “The Snickers has that perfect sweet-salty thing, but the 3 Musketeers is lighter and less obvious to eat. Which would you choose for a first date?”
   “Well,” I begin thoughtfully, “the Snickers might be more satisfying, but it’s messier and has peanuts—not ideal for a first kiss situation. The 3 Musketeers is cleaner to eat discreetly and won’t leave caramel in your teeth.”
   “That’s EXACTLY what I was thinking!” she gasps, as if I’ve read her mind instead of just applying basic logic to candy consumption. “3 Musketeers it is!”
   She pauses, then adds, “But what if the date goes badly and I need serious comfort chocolate after?”
     “That’s what the Snickers is for,” I confirm. “Emotional support chocolate requires substance.”
   “Yes!” She adds both to her purchase. “You’re a genius, Jennifer. You should be a relationship counselor or something.”
   I bag her candy bars, accepting her compliment with a smile. After Officer Daniels, helping with candy selection feels refreshingly innocent.
   The night progresses, and by 2 AM, the store has emptied out. Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire” plays through the speakers, its rapid-fire historical references the only noise besides the hum of refrigerators.
   Right on schedule, the door chimes, and in shuffles Mr. Harmon. I’ve never seen him at any hour except the dead zone between 2 and 3 AM, as if he materializes specifically for this time slot.
     “Evening, Miss Jennifer,” he greets me, making his careful way to the coffee station.
     “Good evening, Mr. Harmon. The usual?”
     “You know it.” He nods, carefully filling a small cup. “Quiet night?”
     “Just got that way,” I reply. “It was a zoo earlier.”
   He brings his coffee to the counter, eyes bright despite the late hour. “Did I ever tell you about the old candy store from when I was a boy?”
   I’ve heard this particular tale at least twice a month for the past year, but at 2 AM with only Billy Joel’s historical catalog for company, I welcome the conversation.
     “I don’t think so,” I lie. “Tell me about it.”
   “Back in my day,” he begins, settling in, “candy bars cost a nickel. A NICKEL! Can you imagine? And good chocolate too, not like these waxy things they sell nowadays.”
   He sips his coffee, eyes distant with memory. “And condoms weren’t hanging behind counters for everyone to see, either. They were kept under the pharmacist’s counter, and you had to ask for them specifically. Most boys were too embarrassed, so they just… took their chances.” He chuckles. “That’s why so many of us got married at eighteen.”
   This is a new addition to his usual story, and I wonder if he caught the end of my interaction with Officer Daniels.
     “Things have changed,” I agree.
   “Not everything,” he says with a surprising wink. “I saw how that young fellow was looking at you. In my day, we called that ‘making eyes.’ My Ellie used to say I could melt butter with the looks I gave her when we were courting.”
   For the next several minutes, Mr. Harmon wanders through his courtship with Ellie—how they met at a soda fountain, their first dance, the day he proposed. His stories weave between five-cent candy and stolen kisses in a way that makes the past feel immediate and real.
   When he finally finishes his coffee, he carefully counts out exact change from a small coin purse worn smooth from decades of use.
     “That policeman who comes in here,” he says suddenly, “he’s not good enough for you.”
     I blink in surprise. “I’m not—we’re not—”
   “I know,” he interrupts gently. “And that’s wise. You remind me of my Ellie. She knew her worth. Turned down the mayor’s son before she gave me the time of day.” He smiles at the memory. “Sixty-two years we had together. Worth the wait to find the right one.”
     He shuffles toward the door, then turns back. “Same time next week?”
     “I’ll be here,” I promise.
   As Billy Joel’s historical journey fades out, I can’t help but smile at the night’s events—unwanted advances, candy conundrums, and unexpected relationship advice from a man who remembers when chocolate cost a nickel and love lasted for decades.
   Just another Saturday at Marty’s Quickmart, where the radio always knows exactly what’s happening behind the counter.