TumbleDweeeb

Declarations, Complaints, and Declined Cards

   Wednesday evenings at Marty’s Quickmart fall into a predictable lull around 8 PM. The after-work rush has died down, and the late-night energy drink crowd hasn’t arrived yet. I’m restocking the cigarette display when Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight” starts playing on the store radio, its gentle melody filling the empty aisles.
   The bell above the door chimes, and in walks… Mark. He’s been a regular for the four years I’ve worked here—always polite, always buying the same things (coffee, black, and whatever newspaper we have), and always lingering just a little too long at the counter.
     “Evening, Jennifer,” he says, his voice carrying that slight nervousness it always has when we talk.
     “Hi Mark. The usual?”
     “You know me too well.” He smiles, watching as I pour his coffee. “Quiet night?”
     “So far.” I place his coffee on the counter and grab the newspaper. “That’ll be $3.75.”
   He hands me exact change—he always has exact change—and then doesn’t move, even though our transaction is complete. Eric Clapton croons about how wonderful someone looks tonight, and Mark clears his throat.
   “Jennifer, I’ve been wanting to tell you something for a while now.” His fingers tap anxiously against the counter. “I’m not good at this sort of thing, but… I have feelings for you. Strong feelings. I think about you all the time.”
   I freeze, coffee pot still in hand. In my four years of retail work, I’ve developed protocols for most customer interactions—the angry ones, the drunk ones, the ones who want to tell you their life story while a line forms behind them. But there’s no protocol for this.
   “I know it’s probably inappropriate,” he continues, words rushing out now. “You’re working, and I’m a customer, and there’s a power dynamic there that I respect. That’s why I’ve never asked you out or made a move. I have morals about these things.”
   Clapton’s romantic guitar solo feels like it’s specifically targeting us, and I silently curse Marty’s ancient radio.
      “Mark, I—”
   “You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupts. “I just wanted you to know. In case you ever felt the same way. Or in case you wanted to, I don’t know, get coffee sometime. Not from here, obviously.” He laughs nervously. “Real coffee. Or dinner. Or whatever you’d prefer.”
   I set the coffee pot down carefully, buying time. Mark is nice. He’s never been creepy or pushy. He tips well on the rare occasions he buys something that warrants tipping. But he’s also a man I know exclusively through a convenience store counter, who apparently has “strong feelings” for me based on our brief, transactional interactions.
   “That’s very flattering,” I begin cautiously, “but I have a policy about not dating customers.” This is a lie I keep in my back pocket for exactly this kind of situation.
     His face falls slightly. “Oh. Of course. That makes sense.”
     “It’s nothing personal,” I add, wanting to let him down gently. “It’s just a boundary thing.”
     “No, I get it. Completely respect that.” He nods too many times. “Still friends though, right?”
     “Of course,” I reply, relieved he’s taking it well. “See you next time.”
   He leaves with his coffee and newspaper, shoulders slightly slumped, and I exhale slowly. That could have gone worse.
   The radio transitions to The Who’s “My Generation,” its rebellious energy a sharp contrast to Clapton’s romantic ballad. Perfect timing, as the door opens to admit Mrs. Halloway—a woman in her seventies with perfectly coiffed silver hair and an opinion about everything.
   “Jennifer, dear,” she greets me, making her way to the counter with a small basket of items. “These energy drinks—are they safe? My grandson drinks them like water, and I worry about his heart.”
     “They’re probably fine in moderation,” I reply, ringing up her milk, bread, and cat food.
   “Nothing is in moderation with young people nowadays,” she sighs. “When I was his age, we didn’t need caffeine to get through the day. We just got up and did what needed doing.”
   The Who’s anthem about hoping to die before getting old plays ironically in the background as Mrs. Halloway launches into her usual commentary.
   “And the way they dress! My granddaughter came to Sunday dinner in ripped jeans. Ripped! On purpose! We would have been mortified to look so shabby in my day. And these phones—always on their phones.”
     I nod politely, having heard variations of this speech at least once a week for years.
   “The problem is, no one teaches them respect anymore,” she continues, warming to her subject. “Or responsibility. Or the value of hard work. Everything’s instant gratification now. And the music! Have you heard what they call music these days? Just noise and inappropriate language.”
   I bag her items, wondering if she notices The Who singing about not wanting to get old while she complains about youth.
     “It’ll be $12.63,” I interject when she pauses for breath.
   “Oh, yes.” She opens her immaculate wallet and counts out exact change. “My Harold would be rolling in his grave if he could see how these young people behave. In our day, we respected our elders, worked hard, and didn’t expect handouts.”
      “I’m sure your grandson will be fine,” I say reassuringly as I hand her the bag.
     “I pray so, dear. I really do.” She sighs deeply. “See you next week. I hope they play some proper music by then.”
   As she exits, I resist the urge to point out that The Who was once considered shocking by her generation. Some battles aren’t worth fighting.
   The evening quiet returns briefly, broken only by the hum of refrigerators and The Who fading into the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Can’t Stop.” The door chimes again, and a young man in business casual attire enters, looking harried.
   He heads straight for the ATM in the corner, inserts his card, and waits. The machine beeps angrily at him. He tries again with the same result, then kicks the machine lightly.
     “Is your ATM working?” he asks, approaching the counter.
     “It was earlier,” I replied. “Sometimes it gets temperamental.”
   “Great,” he mutters. “Just great. I have money in my account, but my card keeps getting declined. I need cash for the babysitter, and my wife has the other card.”
     “We can do cash back if you buy something,” I suggest.
     “Perfect.” He grabs the nearest item—a pack of gum—and hands me his card.
   I run it through our machine. Declined.
   “That’s impossible,” he insists, the frustration evident in his voice. “I checked my balance this morning. There’s plenty in there.”
   “Maybe try calling your bank?” I suggest as gently as possible.
   “With what time? Between meetings and deadlines and daycare pickup—” He stops himself, taking a deep breath. “Sorry. Not your fault. It’s just been one of those days, you know?”
   I nod sympathetically. “Want to try another card?”
   “Don’t have one. Just this and my corporate card, which would definitely get me fired if I used it for cash back.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Any other ideas?”
      “We take Venmo,” I offer. “If you have someone who can send you money that way, we can process it here.”
   His face brightens. “That might work. Let me text my brother.”
   While he types frantically on his phone, the Red Hot Chili Peppers sing about not being able to stop, a fitting anthem for a man clearly running on fumes and determination.
   “He’s sending it now,” he tells me, looking relieved. “Thanks for the suggestion. Saved my night.”
   I process his Venmo payment and hand him the cash plus his pack of gum. “Hope the rest of your evening goes better.”
      “Low bar,” he jokes, “but thanks. Sorry about earlier.”
     “No problem. We all have those days.”
   As he leaves, I glance at the clock—still three hours to go. The radio transitions to something upbeat I don’t recognize, and I return to restocking shelves, thinking about my three customers: the man with feelings but “morals,” the woman who hates everything modern, and the guy just trying to keep his life from falling apart one declined card at a time.
   Just another Wednesday at Marty’s Quickmart, where Eric Clapton, The Who, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers provide the soundtrack to love declarations, generational complaints, and financial frustrations.