TumbleDweeeb

Metal Heads, Mountain Dew, and Midnight Mischief

   Thursday night at Chill & Fill was unusually quiet. The one-eyed polar bear sign had been upgraded again—this time Bob had added a small plastic guitar to the bear’s paw, claiming it gave our mascot “rock star appeal.” The bear now looked like a pirate sailor who’d joined a band, which Bob insisted was “exactly the vibe we’re going for since our coincidental radio plays music at with precision timing.”
   I was halfway through my shift, absently restocking the chip display, when Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” began playing over the store speakers. Almost on cue, the bell above the door chimed, and in walked two teenage boys who could have been straight out of an animated MTV show from the 90s.
   The taller one had blonde hair that stood up like it was perpetually electrified, wearing a blue t-shirt with an AC/DC logo. His friend was shorter with dark brown hair, sporting a Metallica shirt and braces that caught the fluorescent light. Both looked like they hadn’t slept in days, with the wide-eyed, manic energy of teenagers sustained purely by sugar and bad decisions.
       “Huh huh huh,” the taller one laughed, elbowing his friend. “Check it out, Butt-brain. They got, like, a bear with an eye patch and a guitar.”
     “Yeah, yeah! Heh heh,” his friend snickered. “That’s like, cool and stuff. Bears are cool when they’re not, like, eating you and stuff.”
       “Bears are stupid,” the blonde one declared, immediately contradicting himself. “Except ones with guitars. Those are cool.”
   They made their way directly to the slushie machine, bumping into each other and giggling the entire time. The shorter one grabbed the largest cup available and began filling it with every flavor simultaneously, creating a murky brown concoction.
       “Dude!” the blonde one exclaimed. “You’re making it all one color! That sucks!”
     “No way, dumbass,” his friend defended. “I’m like, creating a new flavor. I’m gonna call it… uh… Mountain Dew Extreme Gut Punch.”
       “That’s stupid. You’re stupid,” the blonde replied, then immediately began doing the exact same thing with his own cup. “Mine’s gonna be called, uh… Beavis’ Awesome Mega Death Slushie of Doom.”
     “Heh heh, mine’s better.”
       “No way, butt-munch!”
   They continued this intellectual debate while grabbing handfuls of candy, beef jerky, and every variety of Mountain Dew we carried. When they finally approached the counter, their arms were full of junk food and their slushies were already leaking from the tops.
       “Uh, hey,” the blonde one said, noticing me for the first time. “Uh… huh huh… we want to buy this stuff.”
    “That’ll be $34.67,” I replied after scanning everything.
   Both boys stared at me blankly, then at each other.
       “Uh, Butt-head, do you have any money?” the blonde asked.
     “No way, fart-knocker. You said you had money.”
       “Oh yeah. Uh… wait.” The blonde dug into his pockets, producing lint, a guitar pick, and eventually a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. “I got this from mowing lawns.”
       “You didn’t mow any lawns, Beavis.”
      “Yeah I did, butthole! I mowed, like, Mr. Anderson’s lawn.”
       “No you didn’t. You just ran over his gnome with the mower and then ran away.”
     “That still counts! I used the mower!”
      I cleared my throat. “You’re still about fifteen dollars short.”
   They looked at each other in genuine concern, then back at their pile of snacks, clearly facing a difficult decision about what to surrender.
      “We need to, like, prioritize and stuff,” the dark-haired one said with surprising wisdom. “The slushies and Mountain Dew stay.”
     “Yeah, yeah! And the nachos!” The blonde nodded enthusiastically. “We need the nachos for watching TV later. We’re gonna watch music videos and stuff.”
   After much deliberation, punctuated by insults and slap fights, they reluctantly removed some of the candy and one bag of chips. I recalculated.
       “That’s $19.93.”
   The blonde handed over his twenty with the solemnity of someone surrendering their life savings. As I gave him his seventeen cents change, he noticed my name tag.
       “Heh heh, your bear has one eye,” he snickered. “That’s cool.”
      “Yeah, bears with one eyes are cool,” his friend agreed. “Like, he probably lost it in a fight or something. Fighting is cool.”
     “He also has a tiny guitar,” I pointed out.
   This observation was met with genuine awe.
      “Whoa! A guitar!” the blonde exclaimed. “That’s like, the coolest thing ever! Is he in a band?”
     “Yeah, a heavy metal bear band!” his friend added, clearly thrilled by the concept. “That would rule!”
    “Bob just added it yesterday,” I explained. “He thinks it gives our mascot more personality.”
       “Huh huh, Bob sounds cool,” the blonde said. “Does he, like, play guitar and stuff?”
     “I don’t think so. He just likes adding random things to our mascot.”
       “He should add fire,” the dark-haired one suggested seriously. “Fire makes everything cooler.”
     “Yeah! Fire! Fire!” The blonde began chanting, jumping up and down until his friend smacked him in the back of the head.
   “Shut up, dumbass! You’re gonna get us kicked out again, like at the mini-mart!”
       “Oh yeah. Sorry.” He composed himself, though his eyes still had that manic gleam. “But fire would be cool.”
    “I’ll suggest it to Bob,” I lied, making a mental note to never mention fire to Bob under any circumstances.
   As Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” reached its crescendo over the store speakers, the two teenagers gathered their purchases and headed for the door, still debating what would make the bear mascot cooler—fire, explosions, or a flying V guitar instead of the current acoustic one.
      “That bear needs, like, a tour bus with flames on it,” the blonde was saying as they pushed through the door. “And groupies. Bear groupies.”
   “Yeah, yeah, with big—” The door closed before I could hear the end of that sentence, which was probably for the best.
   The music shifted to Pearl Jam’s “Jeremy” as I cleaned up the puddles of slushie the boys had left in their wake. I’d just finished mopping when the bell chimed again. A middle-aged woman entered, looking exhausted in the distinctive way that only high school teachers can. She wore a cardigan covered in math equation pins, and her expression suggested she’d seen things that had permanently altered her faith in humanity.
   She made her way directly to the coffee station, prepared the strongest possible cup, then added three packets of sugar. When she approached the counter to pay, she also grabbed two chocolate bars.
      “One of those days?” I asked sympathetically.
    “You have no idea,” she replied, rubbing her temple. “I teach high school math. Today, two of my students decided that calculating trajectory would be more ‘hands-on’ if they launched spitballs from rulers. They were aiming for the ceiling but managed to hit the principal as he walked in.”
       “Sounds challenging,” I offered, scanning her items.
     “Challenging? Ha!” She laughed without humor. “I’ve been teaching for fifteen years, and every year I think, ‘they can’t possibly get worse,’ and every year, they prove me wrong.” She sighed deeply. “Don’t get me wrong, I love teaching. But some days…”
    “Some days you need chocolate and caffeine,” I finished for her.
       “Exactly.” She nodded appreciatively. “The worst part is, the two troublemakers are actually quite bright. They just channel all their intelligence into being as disruptive as possible. If they put half that creativity into their schoolwork, they’d be getting straight A’s.”
   As she spoke, Pearl Jam played on about a misunderstood youth, creating an oddly appropriate soundtrack to her venting.
       “That’ll be $5.37,” I said, bagging her stress relief supplies.
   As she handed over her card, she noticed my name tag. “What happened to your bear mascot? It looks like it’s been through a war and then joined a rock band.”
       “Installation accident,” I explained. “Bob keeps adding accessories to distract from the missing eye. The guitar is new.”
     “Huh,” she mused. “You know, it kind of reminds me of a student art project gone wrong. Start with one mistake, keep adding elements hoping no one will notice the original problem, and end up with something utterly bizarre.”
        “That’s a pretty accurate description of our rebranding process,” I admitted.
   She smiled for the first time since entering. “Well, it has character, I’ll give it that. More than I can say for the soulless corporate mascots everywhere else.”
      As she took her coffee and chocolate, she added, “You know, I think I saw two of my students heading out as I was pulling in. Tall blonde one and a shorter one with braces? Look like they haven’t slept in days?”
       “They were just here,” I confirmed. “Bought enough sugar and caffeine to power a small city.”
     She groaned. “Great. That means tomorrow they’ll be even more hyper than usual. Maybe I should call in sick.” She raised her coffee cup in a mock toast. “Here’s to educators everywhere. We need hazard pay.”
   With that, she left, the bell chiming behind her as Pearl Jam faded out. The speakers transitioned to Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Under the Bridge,” its melancholy opening notes setting a different mood for my next customer.
   The door opened, and in walked a man who seemed to occupy the exact middle point of the Venn diagram between “aging rockstar” and “suburban dad.” His graying hair was pulled back in a ponytail, he wore a faded concert t-shirt under a sensible cardigan, and his fingers bore the calluses of someone who’d played guitar for decades.
   He nodded to me politely as he made his way to the beer cooler, selecting a six-pack of craft IPA. When he came to the counter, he also grabbed a bag of pretzel chips.
       “Just these,” he said, placing his items down. “ID’s ready if you need it, though I’m flattered if you think I might be under twenty-one.”
   I smiled at his joke but scanned his items without asking. He looked old enough to be my father.
       “Band playing tonight?” I asked, noticing the guitar case in his car through the window.
     “Yeah, small gig at Rusty’s Bar downtown. Just cover songs, nothing fancy.” He shrugged modestly. “Been playing there every other Thursday for about five years now. Keeps the fingers nimble and the mind sharp.”
       “What kind of music?”
    “90s alternative, mostly. Some grunge, some pop-punk. Music from when I thought I was going to be a rock star.” He smiled ruefully. “Now I’m an accountant who plays Nirvana covers on Thursday nights.”
       “Sounds like a good balance,” I offered.
   “It is,” he agreed. “Took me a while to figure that out. Spent my twenties chasing record deals, living in a van with four other guys who smelled like feet. Now I have a mortgage, two teenagers, and play music for fun. Much better arrangement.”
   As Red Hot Chili Peppers continued playing, he nodded toward the speakers. “Good choice. This whole album got me through college.”
       “Bob says he picks the playlist, I believe the radio has a mind of its own” I explained. “It’s on a 90s kick this month.”
     “Bob has excellent taste,” he replied, then noticed my name tag. “What’s with the one-eyed guitar-playing polar bear?”
   “Sign installation accident,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time that week. “Bob keeps adding accessories to compensate for the missing eye.”
   The man laughed. “That bear has seen some shit, hasn’t he? Reminds me of our old drummer. Lost two fingers in a workshop accident but kept playing with these custom sticks. Said it gave him a unique sound.”
      “Did it?” I asked.
    “Nah, he was terrible. But we loved his attitude.” He gathered his beer and pretzels. “That’ll be my pre-show meal. Nothing says ‘rock and roll’ like craft beer and pretzel chips in a minivan.”
   I laughed as I handed him his change. “Break a leg tonight.”
       “Thanks. If you’re not doing anything later, stop by Rusty’s. First drink’s on me.”
     “Maybe next time,” I said. “Still got four hours left on my shift.”
   He nodded understandingly. “Rock and roll has no clock. Neither does retail, I guess.”
     As he left, I glanced up at the clock. Still half a shift to go at the awkwardly rebranded convenience store with its one-eyed, guitar-wielding polar bear mascot watching over everything—from teenage sugar binges and teacher meltdowns to middle-aged rock star dreams—all to the soundtrack of 90s alternative rock, perfectly matching the strange, sometimes melancholy, sometimes hilarious parade of humanity that passed through our doors.