TumbleDweeeb

Subliminal Messages, Bass Vibrations, and Silent Success

   Friday night at Chill & Fill was already promising to be memorable. The one-eyed polar bear sign was fully operational tonight—Bob had finally gotten the electrical issues sorted, though now the bear seemed to wink at passing cars when the wind hit it just right. I was behind the counter, pretending to organize lottery tickets while actually trying to solve last Sunday’s crossword puzzle.
   Nine Inch Nails’ “Starfuckers Inc.” had just started playing over the store speakers when the bell above the door chimed. A woman in her early thirties entered, wearing designer sunglasses despite the late hour and a scarf that probably cost more than my monthly rent. She glanced around the store with the careful assessment of someone either planning a robbery or worried about being seen in a convenience store.
She picked up a bottle of imported water… not the regular stuff in the cooler, but the fancy glass bottles we keep for the occasional executive passing through—and approached the counter with an air of studied casualness.
      “This store has excellent energy,” she announced, gesturing vaguely around. “I can tell it’s aligned with prosperity vibrations.”
     “Thanks,” I replied, unsure how else to respond. “Bob just rebranded last month.”
   As I rang up her water, she suddenly stopped, looked up at the speaker in the ceiling, then at the surveillance camera in the corner, and said, “Woah, pause.”
   And then, the strangest thing happened—everything seemed to freeze. The clock on the wall stopped ticking. The flickering fluorescent light above the dairy section paused mid-flicker. Even the dust particles floating in the air hung suspended, caught in some bizarre moment of stillness. The only things that moved were the woman and me, like we existed in a pocket of time separate from everything else.

“You know,” she said, looking up, directly at the surveillance camera, “I know you’re watching, mister creator, you need to hear this. Some people are only reading your stories thinking that you’re talking bad about them. For the last 26 years people have whined and cried about the things you’ve been creating. Like they are the subjects of your reality, like your work revolves around them like they are important enough to discuss. If you change content for offended people, it will leave you no content to create. Listen to me, you sir are the one in control of what you make. Nobody else! Let them whine, let them cry, let them be… them. Stop people pleasing and be you.”

   When she finished, she stared directly at me, and just as abruptly as it had stopped, everything resumed motion. The clock ticked, the light flickered, and dust particles continued their lazy dance through the air.
   I blinked, wondering if I’d imagined the whole thing, but the woman just smiled knowingly.
      “This song,” she said, nodding toward the ceiling as Nine Inch Nails played, “it’s about me, you know.”
    As if responding to her words, the volume on the radio suddenly increased, the lyrics growing louder. She nodded along, clearly believing this was confirmation.
   The song went more mellow and Trent Reznor’s voice sang: …. “All our pain…
How did we ever get by without you?
You’re so vain…
I’ll bet you think this song is about you
Don’t you? Don’t you? Don’t you? Don’t you?
Don’t you? Don’t you? Don’t you? (Don’t-) yeah…” And the volume decreased back to normal, like some spirit ghost was controlling the volume.
   “I inspire artists all the time,” she continued, not waiting for my response. “Trent wrote this after meeting me at a gallery opening in ’97. I was his muse for nearly a year.” She sighed theatrically. “It’s a burden sometimes, being so influential.”
      “You… know Trent Reznor?” I asked skeptically.
   “Know him?” She laughed. “Honey, I discovered him. Before me, he was just another musician. After me?” She gestured to the speakers. “Well, you’re playing the evidence.”
   She glanced at my name tag and smirked. “The one-eyed bear is symbolic, of course. It represents the third eye—seeing beyond conventional reality. Bob must be an old soul. Not many people understand these hidden messages.”
      “Bob almost fell off a ladder hanging the sign,” I explained. “The bear lost an eye in the accident.”
   “There are no accidents,” she replied with absolute conviction. “That sign was meant to lose an eye. It’s cosmic irony—teaching us to see more by seeing less.” She tapped her temple. “I understand these things. I’m extremely perceptive to subliminal messages. They’re everywhere in this store, pointing to me.”
   “The only message Bob intended was ‘buy gas and snacks here,’” I said, but she wasn’t listening.
   “The price of this water—$3.79. Three plus seven is ten, nine minus ten is negative one. One eye. See? Everything connects.” She handed me a twenty-dollar bill. “Keep the change. The universe wants you to have it today.”
   Before I could protest, she was already moving toward the door. “I’ll be back when the energies align again. Mercury is in retrograde next week, so probably then.” She paused at the exit. “By the way, tell whoever writes these stories that their work isn’t subtle. I see all the references to me. All of them.”
   With that enigmatic statement, she left, the bell chiming in her wake. As the door closed behind her, Nine Inch Nails faded out, replaced by a moment of strange static and white noise—and then, improbably, the store speakers began blasting Insane Clown Posse’s “The Stalker” this song definitely wasn’t on our approved store playlist.
   The sudden change in music was almost like a herald for what came next. The entire building began to vibrate, windows rattling in their frames as a vehicle approached. Through the glass front, I spotted what could only be described as automotive theater—a 1972 pink Volkswagen modified into a bow-legged low rider, 13-inch player rims with white wall vogue’s. The windows were tinted so dark they were practically black, and the front license plate proudly displayed “WAP” in oversized letters.
   As the car parked—taking up two spaces—the bass was so intense that packages of chips began sliding off their racks. The car door opened, and out stepped a man in his thirties wearing a full face of ICP-style clown makeup, complete with the black and white pattern recognition would probably be called “nightmare fuel.” He wore an oversized jersey, baggy jeans that somehow defied gravity by staying up, and more gold chains than seemed practical for everyday wear.
   He strolled in as if he owned the place, the ICP track syncing to a perfect que of “driving his pink Volkswagen, oh!”
   perfectly with his entrance, and headed straight for the energy drinks. He grabbed four of our largest cans, then added a package of beef jerky and two chocolate bars before approaching the counter.
      “Yo,” he said by way of greeting. “This the new Chill & Fill joint? Used to be Marty’s, right?”
       “Same place, new name,” I confirmed, scanning his items. “Bob decided we needed rebranding.”
   “Bob’s a smart man,” he nodded approvingly. “I respect the hustle. Gotta stay fresh in this economy.” He glanced at my name tag. “That bear is dope. One eye, like he’s seen some shit.”
      “Installation accident,” I explained for what felt like the hundredth time that week.
   “Nah, that’s fate,” he insisted. “Bears with battle scars got stories to tell.” He glanced at the surveillance camera and gave a wink. He leaned in closer. “Speaking of stories, I got one for you. I been coming to this store every Friday night for six months now.”
      I frowned. “I work most Friday nights. I don’t remember seeing you.”
      “That’s ’cause I’m good at what I do,” he said winking at me, the winking thing made his clown makeup crinkle disturbingly. “Been watching the store. Watching the people. Getting to know the patterns.”
   The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. “Why would you do that?”
      “Research, girl! I’m writing a concept story about late-night convenience store culture. The night crawlers, the shift workers, the emergency snack runs.” He gestured grandly around the store. “This place is a goldmine of material.”
      “So you’ve been… stalking our store? For stories?”
     “Stalking’s such an ugly word,” he said, looking genuinely hurt beneath the clown paint. “I prefer ‘dedicated observational research.’ I sit in my car, write stories about what I see. Got a whole novelette called ‘Slushie at Midnight’ that’s straight fire. It’s part of the horror genre.”
   He suddenly produced a business card from somewhere and slid it across the counter. It read “Communicative Hypnosis” with a wordpress link underneath.
      “That’s me. Got 6 followers already. Gonna blow up any day now.” He gathered his energy drinks. “Your total’s $16.42.”
   As he handed over a twenty, he added, “Keep an eye out for a whole book. Might call it ‘The Symbolism of One-Eyed Bears’ in honor of your mascot. Gonna drop some truth about surveillance culture and the all-seeing eye of real creators, you feel me?”
      “Sure,” I replied, having long since learned that agreeing was the fastest way to move certain customer interactions along.
    “Respect,” he said, throwing up what I assumed was a signature gang sign before heading out to his vibrating pink Volkswagen.
   As he drove away, the impossible ICP track faded, and the regular store music resumed as if nothing unusual had happened. I made a mental note to check the security footage later to see if his car was really parked outside the store every Friday night. The thought was equally creepy and sad.
   The store settled into its usual late-night quiet, and some smooth R&B played softly over the speakers. I was restocking the coffee cups when the bell chimed again. A man in his early forties walked in, dressed simply in clean jeans and a plain black t-shirt that fit well but wasn’t flashy. Nothing about him immediately stood out, but there was a quiet confidence in the way he moved—someone comfortable in his own skin.
   He nodded politely as he passed the counter and went straight to the coffee station. As he prepared his cup, Master P’s “Stop Hatin’” began playing over the store speakers, the track seeming oddly appropriate for his unassuming presence.
   When he approached to pay, I noticed the name “Matt” embroidered on the logo on his shirt.
      “Just the coffee?” I asked, ringing him up.
     “And this,” he added, placing a local newspaper on the counter. “Gotta keep up with what’s happening in town.”
    “That’ll be $3.25,” I said.
   As he handed over exact change, I noticed calluses on his hands—the kind that come from actual work, not fashion-accessory labor.
      “Are you new?,” he observed. “Been coming here for years, but don’t think I’ve seen you before.”
    “I’ve been here for four years,” I confirmed. “Odd shifts.”
   He nodded. “Good place. Bob’s a straight shooter.” His eyes flicked to my name tag, and a small smile crossed his face. “The bear’s an improvement. Got character.”
      “Most people think it looks ridiculous,” I admitted.
    “Most people waste energy worrying about the wrong things,” he replied with a shrug. “Bear works fine with one eye. The store sells the same gas and coffee. That’s what matters.”
   There was something refreshing about his pragmatism after the previous two customers.
      “You local?” I asked as he stirred his coffee.
   “Almost 30 years,” he said. “Moved here from Wisconsin around 30 years ago. Moved around city to city until I decided to stick with this one, It’s a good place with good people. Moved away again in 2001.” He didn’t elaborate, but there was weight behind the simple statement. “Came back in 2014. Built a life here. A good one.”
   The way he said it conveyed volumes—not bragging, just acknowledging a personal victory.
      “Construction business?” I guessed, nodding toward his hands.
   “Saw Mill,” he stated. “10 years this fall.”
  Master P continued to play in the background, the lyrics about STAYING FOCUSED and IGNORING NEGATIVITY seeming to mirror something in Matt’s demeanor.
   “Heard you got some excitement here last weekend,” he said, changing the subject. “Friend of mine said there was some kind of confrontation with a customer?”
   I grimaced, remembering the belligerent man who’d accused us of short-changing him. “Yeah, guy made a big scene. Bob had to call the police.”
   Matt nodded. “PEOPLE LOVE DRAMA. Been watching that play out my whole life. Someone does well, others can’t stand it. MAKE UP STORIES, SPREAD RUMORS, try to tear them down.” He took a sip of his coffee. “WASTED ENERGY.”
      “You sound like you’re speaking from experience,” I observed.
    A shadow crossed his face briefly. “Lost my best friend in 2019. Car accident. Hit me hard. Fell into some bad habits for a while.” He said it matter-of-factly, not fishing for sympathy. “Learned who really had my back during that time. Wasn’t who I expected.”
      “I’m sorry about your friend,” I offered.
   “Appreciate that,” he said simply. “Point is, I figured out you can’t control what people say or think about you. Just gotta keep moving forward, doing your thing.” He raised his coffee in a small toast. “Like this bear. Lost an eye, still doing its job. No complaints, no drama.”
      As Master P’s track faded out, Matt checked his watch. “Better get going. Early start tomorrow.”
   “Have a good night,” I said, somehow feeling like I’d had the most normal conversation of the evening with the least flamboyant customer.
   He paused at the door. “You too. And hey—don’t let the weird ones get to you. Every place has them.” With a knowing smile that suggested he might have encountered the same characters I had, he left.
   As the door closed behind him, I glanced up at the one-eyed polar bear on my name tag. Three customers: a self-absorbed woman who thought the world… and apparently the store’s music… revolved around her; a clown-faced stalker using our store for artistic “research”; and a quietly successful man who’d overcome his demons without needing to broadcast them to everybody.
   Just another night at the Chill & Fill, where Nine Inch Nails, ICP, and Master P provided the unlikely soundtrack, through a radio that has a mind of its own… played to the parade of humanity that passed through our doors… all watched over by a one-eyed polar bear that, despite Bob’s intentions, seemed to be developing a personality of its own beneath the flickering neon light.