TumbleDweeeb

The Morning Rush: Dawn Breaks at the Quickmart

The neon sign at the “Chill n’Fill” flickers to life with all the enthusiasm of a teenager asked to clean their room. Our one-eyed polar bear mascot—inexplicably styled like a pirate despite selling gas station coffee rather than plundering ships—surveys the parking lot with its solitary gaze, silently judging each car that pulls in before 7AM. “You again?” its plastic expression seems to say. “Still making life choices that require you to be conscious at this ungodly hour?”
   Inside, the fluorescent lights hum their morning mantra: “You-could-have-been-a-doctor-but-here-you-are-selling-potato-chips.” I yawn behind the counter, still carrying the weird energy of the night shift like secondhand smoke—tales of ghost mailmen and dimension-hopping tourists that the morning manager dismisses as “caffeine hallucinations.” The radio crackles to life with John Denver’s soothing voice, which feels wildly inappropriate for people who are about to spend the day in offices rather than enjoying the mountains. Meanwhile, I prepare for the morning parade: the Barely Awake, the Doomed by Drowsiness, and the Alarmingly Cheerful—all performing their roles in this daily theater of a convenience store under the watchful eye of our snowy sentinel with a single sight.The morning shift has a different energy than the night. Instead of eerie quiet punctuated by bizarre visitors, my 6AM to 2PM shift brings a steady stream of travelers, workers, and caffeine-deprived office staff. I lean against the counter, watching the sunrise paint the parking lot in shades of amber, pink and gold.
   The night shift’s weirdness still clings to me like a strange perfume. I tried telling Bob about the ghost mailman, but was met with an eye roll and a muttered comment about “our weird overnight crew.”
   The store radio is playing John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” its gentle, nostalgic melody providing a soundtrack to the start of a new day. Something about Denver’s voice singing about West Virginia mountain roads feels oddly appropriate for our sleepy small-town atmosphere, where everyone knows everyone—or at least pretends to.
   The bell above the door jingles, announcing my first customer of the shift. A woman in a sharp business suit strides in, phone pressed to her ear, speaking rapidly in what sounds like multiple languages.
   “…and tell him the deadline is non-negotiable. Oui, absolument. Nein, das geht nicht.” She switches seamlessly between English, French, and German without pausing for breath. “Hai, wakarimasu. Meet me at the office in twenty minutes.”
   She approaches the counter, still talking, and holds up a finger to me in the universal “one moment” gesture.
       “Listen, I don’t care if he’s the mayor’s cousin’s dog groomer. The contract specifically prohibits karaoke nights as a team exercise. Yes, I checked the fine print.” She finally ends the call and turns to me with a bright, professional smile. “Large coffee, black. And whatever pastry has the most sugar.”
     “Coming right up,” I reply, pouring the coffee. “Rough morning already?”
       “You have no idea.” She glances around furtively, then leans over the counter. “Can I tell you a secret?”
   I nod, intrigued.
       “I don’t actually speak any of those languages.” She whispers. “Not a single word. I’ve been faking it for three years.”
      I blink in surprise. “But… how?”
   “I just make sounds that sound like the language and throw in a few words I’ve picked up from movies. Nobody at the office I work for speaks more than one language, so no one knows.” She straightens her already-perfect tie. “I’ve been promoted twice because they think I’m a linguistic.”
      “That’s… impressive?” I’m not sure if I should be awed or concerned.
    “The trick is confidence.” She taps her temple knowingly. “And carrying a lot of foreign language dictionaries in my car. Speaking of which…” She glances at her watch. “I need to review Hungarian before my 9AM. Apparently, we have a new client.”
   She pays for her coffee and donut, then pauses at the door. “By the way, your ceiling fan is spinning counterclockwise. Bad feng shui. It’s inviting prosperity vampires.”
   With that cryptic warning, she’s gone, leaving me staring up at the perfectly ordinary ceiling fan.
   The morning progresses with the usual parade of commuters, each grabbing coffee and complaining about Monday traffic. Around 10AM, as John Denver gives way to Dolly Parton on the radio, her twangy voice filling the store with tales of working nine to five, the door opens to admit a lanky teenager wearing a fast food uniform from the burger place across the street.
      “Hey,” he says, approaching the counter with the careful movements of someone trying very hard to appear normal. “Do you sell…, cheese?”
     “Cheese?” I repeat. “We have some processed cheese slices in the refrigerated section. And nacho cheese for the chips.”
       “No, like, special cheese.” The teen glances over his shoulder as if expecting to be followed. “Magic cheese?”
     I stare at him. “I don’t think we carry that.”
      “Right, right.” He nods vigorously. “Because it’s secret? I get it.” He winks exaggeratedly. “Let me try again. I’m looking for… moon cheese?”
    “We don’t have…”
       “Enchanted dairy products?” he interrupts. “Wizard cheddar? The Gouda of Greater Power?”
     I cross my arms. “Look, we have regular cheese. In the fridge. That’s it.”
   The teen deflates slightly. “Fine. But can you at least tell me where I can find the Cheese Wizard? My shift ends at four, and I need to complete my quest by sundown.”
       “The… Cheese Wizard?”
   “Yeah, you know. The old dude who lives behind the dumpsters and grants wishes if you bring him the right kind of cheese? Everyone knows about him.”
   I’ve worked at this store for four years and have never heard of any wish-granting dumpster wizard, cheese-related or otherwise.
      “I think someone’s playing a prank on you,” I say gently.
   The teen’s eyes widen. “No way. Daryl from drive-thru said his cousin’s girlfriend’s roommate got three wishes after giving the Cheese Wizard some fancy imported stuff.” He leans in secretively. “She wished for a new car, a promotion, and for her ex-boyfriend to go bald. All three came true.”
   Just then, the teen’s phone buzzes. He checks it and his face falls. “Aw man, Daryl just texted. Says there’s no Cheese Wizard and the whole crew has been messing with me because I’m the new guy.” He shoves the phone back in his pocket. “I guess I’ll just take some regular cheese.”
   As I ring up his purchase, the teen still looks gloomy.
       “Hey,” I say, “if it makes you feel any better, last night I met a ghost mailman who walked through a wall.”
   The teen perks up. “Really?”
       “Really. This place gets weird after midnight.”
   The teen nods thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll ask to switch to the night shift.” He pays for his cheese and heads for the door, pausing briefly. “Wait, if there’s ghost mailmen and weird brides and stuff at night… maybe there really is a Cheese Wizard!”
   I just smile and wave as he leaves, already planning to check behind the dumpsters, just in case.
   The lunch rush comes and goes, a blur of sandwiches and energy drinks. As my shift nears its end, the radio starts playing Elton John’s “Rocket Man,” the spacey, melancholic tune filling the store with its gentle sadness about being so far from home. I’ve always loved how Elton captures that feeling of isolation, even when you’re surrounded by people.
   The bell jingles one last time, and in walks an older man with a magnificent silver mustache and a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. He carries a briefcase that looks like it survived several wars, covered in stickers from countries I’ve never heard of.
       “Good afternoon,” he greets me with a slight bow. “I require directions, if you would be so kind.”
     “Sure thing,” I reply. “Where are you trying to get to?”
   The man places his briefcase on the counter and extracts an ancient-looking map that appears to be drawn on parchment. “I’m searching for the local oddity known locally as ‘Devil’s Whisper Canyon.’ My research suggests it’s approximately 7.3 miles northwest of this gas station.”
     I frown. “I’ve lived here my whole life, and I’ve never heard of any Devil’s Whisper Canyon.”
       “Ah, yes. The locals often use other words to ward off curious tourists such as myself.” He strokes his mustache thoughtfully. “Perhaps you know it as ‘Old Miller’s Ravine’? Or possibly ‘The Place Where the Pine Trees Sway’?”
       “There’s Miller Creek about ten miles out of town,” I offer. “But it’s just a regular creek. No devils or whispering that I know of.”
   The man’s eyes light up. “Splendid! The classic misdirection. They’ve renamed it something dull to hide its true nature.” He begins rolling up his map with a skilled efficiency. “Tell me, have there been any mysterious disappearances in the area? Unexplained livestock migrations? Temporary distortions where people lose hours or days without explanation?”
       “Not that I’ve heard of,” I reply. “Though Mrs. Abernathy’s cats have been acting weird lately. She thinks they’re forming a cult.”
   The man pulls out a small notebook and begins writing furiously. “Feline collective consciousness manifestation… possible interdimensional bleed-through… very interesting.” He looks up at me with intense excitement. “And you say this ‘Miller Creek’ is northwest?”
   I nod, slightly concerned about sending this strange man into the countryside. “It’s just a regular creek, though. People go fishing there all the time.”
     “Of course they do,” he says with a wink. “Perfect cover story.” He packs away his notebook and straightens his bow tie. “One must always maintain denial when dealing with tears in the fabric of reality.”
   He purchases a bottle of water, a flashlight, and four bags of peanut butter M&M’s (“Protein is essential when crossing dimensional thresholds”), then pauses at the door.
       “My dear, you’ve been most helpful. Should I not return within 48 hours, please alert the police. They’ll know what to do.”
   With that, he’s gone, his vintage station wagon kicking up gravel as he pulls out of the parking lot, “Rocket Man” still playing softly in the background.
   I check the clock—ten minutes until the end of my shift. As I begin counting down the register, I wonder what strange tales the afternoon clerk will have to share. Maybe I’ll stick around a little longer today, just to compare notes. After all, at the Chill n’Fill, you never know who—or what—might come through that door next.