TumbleDweeeb

Announcements, Raps, and Inappropriate Requests

   Tuesday night at Chill & Fill was usually slow, but Bob had chosen today to test the store’s new intercom system. The one-eyed polar bear sign had received yet another accessory—this time a miniature gold chain around its neck, giving our mascot an unexpected hip-hop vibe that clashed violently with its sailor hat and swim trunks.
   I was restocking the beer cooler when the intercom crackled to life, Bob’s voice coming through with alarming clarity.
      “Attention Chill & Fill shoppers,” he announced with unnecessary enthusiasm. “I want to inform all you sexy customers about our new promotion. If you buy any of our twelve-inch subs, you’ll experience a meat explosion in your mouth unlike anything you’ve ever had before! Our special sauce will drip down your chin and leave you begging for more!”
   I froze in horror as Bob continued, his voice echoing through the empty store.
       “Ladies, don’t forget to check out our cucumbers in produce—they’re firm, thick, and ready to satisfy all your… salad needs. And gentlemen, our melons are ripe for squeezing! Soft, juicy, and they fit perfectly in your hands!”
   He paused, clearly pleased with himself, before delivering his final line: “Remember at Chill & Fill, we’ll fill you up in all the right places! And if you need help finding anything, Jennifer will be happy to assist you… personally and intimately! That’s customer service you can feel!”
   My face burned with embarrassment as the intercom clicked off. Thank goodness the store was empty—or so I thought until I heard snickering from the chip aisle. A young man in his twenties emerged, wearing a branded snapback and an expensive-looking hoodie. He had the confident swagger of someone who considered themselves far cooler than their surroundings.
       “Your boss has no chill,” he remarked, approaching the counter with a Red Bull and a bag of chips. “But mad respect for saying what everyone’s thinking.”
   As he placed his items on the counter, Cal Scruby’s “Money Buy Drugs” began playing over the store speakers, its upbeat tempo and wry observations about consumerism creating an oddly appropriate backdrop.
       “This song is my jam!” the customer exclaimed, nodding along to the beat. “Cal Scruby is underrated, for real.”
     “You’re a fan?” I asked, scanning his items.
      “Huge fan. This track speaks truth.” He gestured around the store. “Everyone’s out here pretending they’re spending money on necessities, but we all know what people really want.”
    “Energy drinks and chips?” I suggested.
   He laughed. “Nah, just the temporary high of buying stuff. Same concept as the song, you know? People spending cash chasing different kinds of buzz.” He pulled out his wallet. “Like me, dropping eight bucks on empty calories and caffeine.”
   Cal Scruby’s track continued as he handed me a twenty-dollar bill. The song’s theme about people using money to buy things that provide temporary pleasure seemed to resonate with him on a philosophical level.
       “Your boss’s announcement though—that was wild,” he continued. “Dude sounds like he’s auditioning for adult films instead of running a gas station.”
    “Bob has interesting ideas about marketing,” I admitted, handing him his change.
       “Hey, sex sells, right?” He pocketed the money. “Speaking of which, what’s up with the bear wearing a gold chain? Is he a rapper bear this week?”
     “Bob’s latest addition,” I explained. “The bear lost an eye during installation, so Bob keeps adding all these crazy accessories to distract from it.”
   “Smart move,” he nodded approvingly. “Covering up flaws with flashy distractions—just like people do with money and drugs.” He tapped his temple. “Deep stuff, just like Cal’s saying.”
   He cracked open his Red Bull and took a long sip. “You ever think about how places like this are basically legal drug dealers? Caffeine, sugar, nicotine, alcohol and nowadays it’s marijuana… all the socially acceptable addictions in one convenient location.”
       “I try not to analyze it too deeply during my shifts,” I replied.
     “Fair enough.” He gathered his purchases. “Stay woke though. And tell your boss his announcements are both hilarious and deeply concerning… kind of like this song.”
   With that philosophical observation, he headed for the door, still nodding to the beat of Cal Scruby as he exited.
   The door had barely closed when Prof’s “Squad Goals” began playing, its braggadocious beat and humorous tone filling the store. Almost on cue, the bell chimed, and in walked a group of three college-aged guys, all wearing matching fraternity jackets and exuding the loud confidence of people who considered themselves the life of every party.
       “Dudes!” the tallest one announced. “This song is literally us right now!”
   They high-fived each other enthusiastically while making their way to the beer cooler, grabbing two twelve-packs and a variety of snacks. When they approached the counter, they placed their items down with the ceremonious attitude of conquerors displaying spoils.
       “Squad goals, am I right?” the one with a backwards cap said, gesturing to his friends. “We’re hitting three parties tonight. Epic mission.”
    “Sounds ambitious,” I remarked, scanning their beer.
       “Go big or go home,” another replied, scrolling through his phone. “Yo, check this—Prof actually made a Mr. Rogers-themed video for this song. Completely inappropriate but genius.”
     “Speaking of inappropriate,” the tall one said, “did I just hear your manager making sexual innuendos over the intercom, or was I hallucinating?”
       “Unfortunately, that was real,” I confirmed. “Bob’s testing the system.”
        “That dude’s my spirit animal,” backwards cap declared. “Zero filter, just like Prof in this song. Listing off all his possessions and achievements—it’s basically Bob but with intercom privileges.”
   They all laughed as Prof’s track continued, the song’s humorous tone about exaggerated bragging and materialism perfectly matching their fraternity swagger.
       “ID please?” I asked, though they all looked old enough.
   The tall one produced his license with a flourish. “Check the date—turned twenty-one last week. We’re celebrating tonight!”
   I verified his age and continued ringing up their purchases. “That’ll be $47.82.”
   As backwards cap handed over his credit card, he noticed my name tag. “What’s with the one-eyed bear wearing a gold chain?”
       “Sign installation accident,” I explained for what felt like the hundredth time since it happened. “Bob keeps adding accessories to distract from the missing eye.”
    “Dope strategy,” he nodded, clearly impressed. “It’s like Prof says in this song—if you’ve got enough cool stuff, nobody notices what’s missing.”
       “I don’t think that’s what—” I started, but was interrupted.
    “Yo, Jennifer,” the tall one said, leaning against the counter with practiced casualness. “Your boss said you provide ‘personal and intimate’ customer service. Any chance you could hook us up with some dixie cups for our beer pong tournament later?”
       “Dixie cups are in aisle three,” I replied flatly. “Self-service, like everything else in this store.”
     “Shot down!” his friend laughed, punching him in the arm. “Swing and a miss, bro!”
   They collected their beer and snacks, still chuckling. “Squad’s rolling out!” backwards cap announced. “Jennifer, you’re missing epic adventures!”
      “I’ll try to contain my disappointment,” I replied, which only made them laugh harder.
   As they left, I could hear them outside, loudly arguing about which party to hit first, the final notes of Prof’s track fading out as the door closed behind them.
     The store settled into momentary silence before Eazy-E’s “Gimme That Nutt” began playing, its sample of the Green Acres theme creating an unexpectedly catchy but wildly inappropriate soundtrack for a convenience store. I made a mental note to have a serious talk with Bob about the playlist—right after the conversation about inappropriate announcements.
   The bell chimed again, and in walked a middle-aged man wearing a business suit that looked like it had seen the entirety of a very long day. His tie was loosened, hair disheveled, and he carried himself with the weary resignation of someone who’d been stuck in meetings since dawn.
   He headed straight for the coffee station, preparing a cup with mechanical efficiency before approaching the counter with his coffee and a packaged pastry.
       “Rough day?” I asked conversationally.
     “Fourteen hours of quarterly projections,” he sighed. “I’ve seen so many spreadsheets that I’m starting to dream in Excel.”
   As Eazy-E’s explicit track continued playing overhead, the man suddenly seemed to register the music. His eyebrows shot up, and he glanced at the ceiling speakers.
       “Is that… Eazy-E?” he asked, looking surprised.
   “Unfortunately,” I confirmed. “Bob’s experimental playlist.”
  To my surprise, a smile broke across his face. “Man, I haven’t heard this since college! 1993—my sophomore year. We used to play this album nonstop in our dorm.”
   He began nodding along to the beat, his corporate demeanor temporarily replaced by nostalgic enthusiasm. “This song samples the Green Acres theme, you know. Eazy was always creative with his samples.”
       “I take it that you’re an Eazy-E fan,” I remarked, somewhat taken aback by this suited businessman’s knowledge of 90s gangsta rap.
     “Back in the day, absolutely,” he said, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. “My parents hated it, which made it even better. NWA, Eazy’s solo stuff—the more explicit, the more we played it.”
   He chuckled, shaking his head at the memory. “Our RA once confiscated our CD player because we blasted this song specifically. Too many complaints from the girls’ floor.”
       “I can imagine,” I said, glancing meaningfully at the ceiling as Eazy-E continued his extremely graphic storytelling.
    “It’s hilariously inappropriate,” he agreed. “But catchy as hell. I haven’t thought about this song in years, but I still remember every word.” He caught himself. “Not that I should repeat any of them in public.”
       “Probably wise,” I nodded, ringing up his coffee and pastry. “That’ll be $4.17.”
   As he handed over his credit card, he noticed my name tag. “What happened to your bear mascot? Is that a gold chain?”
      “Installation accident and Bob’s creative solutions,” I explained briefly wishing Bob would stop adding to it. “The bear lost an eye, so Bob keeps adding distractions. It’s getting annoying.”
    “Ah, the corporate approach,” he laughed. “Don’t fix the actual problem, just add shiny distractions until people stop noticing. Sounds like my job.”
   He collected his coffee and pastry, still nodding along to Eazy-E. “You know what’s funny? Twenty-five years ago, I was a college kid blasting this in my dorm room to annoy authority figures. Now I’m the authority figure, and hearing it in a gas station at 10 PM while buying coffee to help me finish a presentation.” He shook his head. “Life comes at you fast.”
       “At least you still remember the lyrics,” I offered.
    “True, though my kids would be mortified if they knew,” he grinned. “Actually, do you sell earbuds? I might need to listen to some 90s gangsta rap on the drive home now. Blast from the past.”
   I pointed him to our small electronics section, where he selected a cheap pair of earbuds before returning to the counter.
       “For the record,” he said as I scanned them, “your boss’s announcement when I walked in was almost as explicit as this song. You might want to tell him to tone it down before someone brings their kids in here.”
    “Believe me, it’s on my list,” I assured him.
  With a final nostalgic nod to Eazy-E, he left, already unwrapping his earbuds as he headed to his car.
  I glanced up at the clock—still five hours to go on my shift at the inappropriately rebranded convenience store with its one-eyed, gold-chain-wearing polar bear mascot. Between Bob’s wildly inappropriate announcements, Cal Scruby’s commentary on consumerism, Prof’s over-the-top bragging, and Eazy-E’s explicit storytelling, it had already been a night of questionable content and surprising customer reactions.
   Just another evening at Chill & Fill, where the music was too explicit for public consumption, the announcements were lawsuit-worthy, and the random parade of humanity that passed through our doors served as a reminder that you never can tell who secretly knows all the words to a 90s gangsta rap classic.