TumbleDweeeb

Bunnies, Bad Milk, and Burnt Botanicals

  I arrived for my Tuesday shift at Marty’s Quickmart to find pure chaos—Bob, the owner for the past decade, was dangling from a safety harness, wrestling with a neon sign while a contractor watched nervously below. Aerosmith’s “Livin’ on the Edge” blasted from someone’s truck radio nearby, the title and theme of the song perfectly capturing Bob’s precarious position as he swung precariously above the parking lot.
    “Jennefer!” Bob shouted when he spotted me. “What do you think of our new branding addition?” He gestured proudly to a bright neon sign reading “CHILL & FILL” that he was attempting to mount directly above the existing Marty’s Quickmart sign. The sign featured a sunglasses-wearing polar bear in electric blue neon, casually holding a gas pump nozzle like a microphone while giving a thumbs-up with its other paw.
   “Chill & Fill!” he announced enthusiastically as Steven Tyler’s vocals about living on the edge wailed in the background. “Get it? You chill while you fill your tank! After ten years, I figured we needed something flashier to attract the night crowd! The marketing company said a mascot would make us more memorable!”
   At that moment, one side of the neon sign came loose, leaving Bob dangling while holding the other end, nearly pulling him from his safety harness. The neon polar bear’s sunglasses detached and shattered on the pavement below. The contractor let out a string of curses as he scrambled to stabilize the ladder.
   “Don’t worry!” Bob called down, his voice higher than usual. “Just a minor setback! Jennifer, come up to my office later—I’ve got your new name tags and uniforms ready!”
   Two hours later, after the sign was finally secured—one-eyed, but functional—Bob proudly presented me with my new name tag and uniform. The name tag featured the Cool Bear logo (now wearing an eye patch instead of sunglasses) above my name, while the new uniform was my usual polo shirt but now with “CHILL & FILL instead of Marty’s Quickmart” embroidered across the back in electric blue thread, with the bear silhouette as a watermark.
   “Isn’t it fantastic?” Bob beamed, showcasing his own matching polo. “I’m keeping Marty’s name of course—I’m just making it shine—but we need some pizzazz! The bear really pops, don’t you think? Even with the emergency eye patch modification!”

    Thursday nights at Marty’s Quickmart… now with the glowing one-eyed “CHILL & FILL” polar bear flickering intermittently above the entrance typically bring in the pre-party crowd. The radio plays Prince’s “1999,” its thumping rhythm setting the stage for what’s clearly going to be an interesting evening.
   I’m arranging the candy display when the bell chimes and the store is suddenly filled with the scent of vanilla perfume and the sound of giggling. Two women in their twenties enter, both wearing tight black miniskirts, each with pink garters, and somewhat inexplicably… white fluffy bunny ear headbands. Their makeup is immaculate, all dramatic eyeliner and glossy lips.
     “Rebecca, they have those purple energy drinks!” one squeals, tottering toward the refrigerated section on impossibly high heels.
     “Get me two! I am not falling asleep before morning again,” Rebecca responds, approaching the counter. She smiles at me, adjusting her bunny ears. “Hey Doll! Do y’all sell, like, glitter? Or something shiny?”
     “Craft supplies are aisle three, but our selection is pretty limited,” I reply.
     “We’re headed to the All Whhh…Party downtown,” she explains, though I haven’t asked. She leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “It’s an exclusive party. Once a month. Invitation only. Every month on the second Saturday is ‘Bunny’ night.” She raises her eyebrows suggestively. “Let’s just say the dress code gets more… optional… as the night goes on.”
   Her friend joins us, arms full of purple energy drinks, Sprite, candy, and a small package of cosmetic glitter she’s found.
   “This is perfect!” she exclaims. “Rebecca, we can put the glitter right here.” She gestures vaguely to her collarbones, then glides lower with a meaningful look.
      “So cute,” Rebecca agrees. “Oh, and those!” She points to a display of glow stick bracelets near the register. “These will look amazing when the lights go down.”
   As if on cue, the radio transitions from Prince to Three 6 Mafia’s “Sippin’ on Some Syrup,” its slow, hypnotic beat filling the store. Rebecca and her friend exchange knowing glances, both suppressing giggles.
     “So perfect!” Rebecca laughs, nodding toward the ceiling speaker. “It’s like the universe wants us to party.”
     “Everyone loves our purple drank,” Rebecca’s friend giggles. “It’s just energy drinks and Sprite, but they act like it’s something crazy.”
     “That’s because you put like five energy drinks in each cup,” Rebecca replies, rolling her eyes. “People be sippin’ and trippin’.”
     “That’ll be $32.86,” I interject during a pause in their conversation.
     “Oh! Right.” Rebecca pulls a credit card from somewhere in her miniskirt… I don’t want to know where she’s storing it… and hands it over. “Do I look okay? Be honest. Hot enough?”
   I’m not sure why my opinion matters, but I nod. “The ears are a nice touch.”
   This is apparently the right answer, as both women beam at me. “Thanks! You should totally come sometime. I could get you on the list!”
     “I’m working until 6AM,” I explain, bagging their items, grateful for the perfect excuse.
     “Bummer,” her friend says with genuine sympathy. “Next time! You look like you’d be fun.”
    “What’s with the pirate polar bear?” Rebecca asks, pointing to my name tag. “Is that new? I’ve been coming to Marty’s forever and never noticed that before.”
  “Bob’s owned the place for a decade,” I explain, touching the bear logo. “He just decided we needed a flashier brand identity. Nearly fell to his death hanging that neon sign outside on Tuesday. The bear lost an eye in the process.”
    “Chill & Fill,” Becky’s friend repeats, examining the logo more closely. “That bear looks like he knows how to party! Sounds like what we’re doing tonight!”
   They leave in a cloud of perfume and enthusiasm, bunny ears bobbing as they head back out into the night. I watch them climb into a waiting Uber, already opening the energy drinks and Sprite, presumably to start mixing their party concoction.
   The music transitions to WITCHZ “Smells Like Teen Spirit [Alt Mix] (Nirvana Cover),” its eerie, dissonant melody and dark undertones creating the perfect backdrop for what comes through the door next… a middle-aged man with the harried look of someone who’s just discovered something unpleasant. He places a gallon of milk on the counter with the caution one might use handling toxic waste.
      “I need to return this,” he announces. “It’s spoiled.”
    I glance at the milk. The expiration date is clearly three days ago. “Do you have your receipt, sir?”
  “No, but it’s definitely from here,” he insists. “I bought it last week and it’s already chunky. Ruined my coffee this morning.”
   I pick up the milk carton carefully, and sure enough, there’s a distinct sloshing sound that milk definitely shouldn’t make. The smell when I crack the cap confirms his assessment, the sour odor perfectly complementing Kurt Cobain’s haunting lyrics about being locked in a slower, more eerie rendition.
   “I can process a return without a receipt,” I tell him, “But next time, you might want to check the expiration date before purchasing.”
     “I shouldn’t have to check,” he argues, warming to his grievance. “The store shouldn’t be selling expired products.”
   We go through this dance at least once a week with various customers. Nobody wants to admit they missed the expiration date, so it must be the store’s fault.
     “I apologize for the inconvenience,” I say mechanically. “Would you like a replacement or a refund?”
     “Replacement,” he grumbles. “And one that’s not about to turn into yogurt, please.”
   I set the offensive milk aside and fetch a fresh gallon with a date two weeks out. “Here you go. This one should be fine.”
   He examines the date with exaggerated care. “I suppose this will do. But I’ll be checking it when I get home.”
   “That’s probably wise,” I agree, hiding my amusement. He’s acting like he’s accepting a kidney rather than a $3.79 gallon of milk.
    “What’s with that ridiculous one-eyed bear outside?” he asks. “And your shirt? Bob finally losing his mind after all these years?”
      “Just a branding refresh,” I explain. “Bob thought we needed something with more ‘pizzazz’ after ten years.”
   “Chill & Fill,” he reads from my name tag with obvious disapproval. “With a pirate polar bear? Ridiculous. Been coming to Marty’s for fifteen years, since before Bob even owned it. Don’t need any chilling or filling or cartoon animals.”
   He leaves still muttering about quality control and unnecessary flashiness, and I make a mental note to have someone check the dairy case for other potential time bombs.
   WITCHZ dark, unsettling energy fades as I dispose of the spoiled milk, and the radio shifts to Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds,” its reassuring message that everything’s gonna be alright seeming to directly address what walks through the door next.
   I smell him before I see him—a potent combination of marijuana and desperation. He’s young, maybe early twenties, with bloodshot eyes and the unmistakable jittery energy of someone who is simultaneously high and panicking.
   He heads straight for the automotive section, where he grabs a pine tree air freshener from the display. Without hesitation, he tears open the package and begins rubbing the cardboard tree all over his jacket, hair, and even his face.
      I approach cautiously. “Sir? You need to pay for that before opening it.”
     He jumps, clearly startled by my presence. “Oh! Yeah, totally. I’ll pay. I need like, five more of these.”
   I watch as he grabs several more air fresheners and brings them to the counter. The smell of artificial pine is now competing with the marijuana aroma, creating a uniquely terrible forest-fire-meets-college-dorm bouquet.
     “Big fan of pine scent?” I ask, scanning the items including the opened one he’s still clutching.
    “My mom’s picking me up,” he explains in a stage whisper. “Can’t let her know I was at Dave’s, you know? Dave’s got this new stuff that smells insane.”
     “I can tell,” I reply dryly.
   “Is it working?” he asks anxiously. “The pine thing?”
   I consider lying to make him feel better, but decide honesty is kinder in the long run. “Not really. You still smell pretty strongly of weed. The pine is just making it… piney weed.”
      His face falls. “Crap. She’s gonna kill me. I told her I was at study group.”
    “Maybe try washing your hands and face in the bathroom?” I suggest. “And there’s breath mints by the register.”
   “You’re a lifesaver,” he says with the profound gratitude of the truly baked. “Add those mints too, please.”
   I ring up his panic purchase as Bob Marley continues to assure us not to worry about a thing. The guy pays, then heads to the bathroom with his arsenal of scent disguise.
   When he emerges ten minutes later, he’s wet from hair to mid-chest, as if he dunked his entire head in the sink. The pine air fresheners are now stuffed in his pockets, their little cardboard trees peeking out like strange growths. He’s sucking frantically on mints, with several more clutched in his fist.
      “Better?” he asks hopefully.
     “Well, you now smell like wet pine marijuana with a hint of mint,” I tell him. “But it’s… an improvement?”
    His phone buzzes, and his eyes widen. “She’s here! Thanks for everything!”
   As he rushes toward the door, he notices my name tag. “Dude! A one-eyed polar bear with a gas pump microphone? That’s rad!” He laughs with genuine appreciation. “Chill & Fill? That’s exactly what I need! I need to chill before I fill my mom’s car with this smell!”
   Through the window, I watch him slide into a sensible sedan driven by a middle-aged woman who immediately rolls down all the windows despite the cool evening air.
   The radio transitions to The Doors’ “Riders on the Storm” as I straighten the remaining air fresheners. Still five hours to go on my shift, and I’ve already witnessed preparations for an exclusive adult party, narrowly avoided a dairy disaster, and assisted in a failed attempt at maternal deception… all while sporting my ridiculous new “CHILL & FILL” uniform with its one-eyed polar bear mascot.
   Just another Thursday at this awkwardly rebranded convenience store, where Prince, Three 6 Mafia, and Bob Marley provide the soundtrack to the small dramas of people just trying to navigate their way through life, one convenience store purchase at a time.