TumbleDweeeb

Wildlife, Wild Behavior, and Wild Requests

   Sunday night at Chill & Fill was proving to be anything but peaceful. The one-eyed polar bear mascot outside—now sporting not only its signature eyepatch but also a miniature fishing rod and sailor hat—had somehow attracted a family of actual raccoons that had taken up residence behind the sign. Bob, our chronically stressed and perpetually bald owner, had spent most of the afternoon unsuccessfully trying to chase them away with a broom.
   I was restocking the energy drinks when the store intercom crackled to life, Bob’s exasperated voice filling the small space.
       “Attention Chill & Fill customers and employees,” he announced, his tone suggesting this was a matter of national security. “This is an important public service announcement regarding our company mascot. It has come to my attention that our one-eyed polar bear sign is attracting actual wildlife to the premises. As of this morning, we have documented three raccoons, a possum family, two stray cats, and what I believe might be a very small coyote, though Jennifer insists it’s just a mangy dog.”
   I rolled my eyes as he continued, his bald head visible through the office window, gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
       “I want to be clear that this establishment does NOT endorse, support, or take responsibility for any wildlife that may be attracted to our bear mascot. These animals are NOT authorized Chill & Fill representatives and should not be approached, fed, or asked for recommendations on our products. Furthermore, if the health department calls, nobody has seen anything with more than two legs outside this building. That is all.”
   The intercom clicked off, leaving an awkward silence punctuated only by the soft hum of the refrigerators. As if on cue, a large raccoon sauntered past the front window, looking decidedly smug.
   I was contemplating whether to tell Bob about this latest wildlife sighting when the bell above the door chimed. Two men in their twenties walked in, wearing backward baseball caps and oversized T-shirts. They had the confident swagger of guys who were quite pleased with themselves and assumed everyone else was equally impressed.
       “Yo, check out the beer selection, man,” one called to the other, making his way to the cooler. “Let’s get something good for later.”
   As they deliberated over their beer choices, 2 Live Crew’s notorious “Me So Horny” began playing over the store speakers. I winced, making a mental note to have a serious conversation with Bob about his “classic hits” playlist. The song was famously controversial in the late ’80s for its explicit content, leading to legal battles over obscenity charges, and hearing it in a convenience store in 2025 seemed wildly inappropriate.
   The two guys nodded along to the beat, occasionally murmuring lyrics to each other and laughing. When they approached the counter with their selection of beer and chips, one of them leaned forward, placing both hands on the counter and giving me what he clearly thought was a charming smile.
       “Hey,” he said, his gaze lingering inappropriately. “You work here every Sunday night?”
     “Sometimes,” I replied noncommittally, scanning their items.
   “We should hang out sometime,” he pressed on. “Me and my boy Derrick here are having a little get-together later. You should come by.”
       “Thanks, but I’m working until closing,” I said, bagging their purchases.
    “That’s cool, we’ll be up late,” he persisted. “What time you get off?”
  “Too late,” I replied firmly.
     His smile faltered slightly. “Don’t be like that. I’m just being friendly.”
       “That’ll be $24.87,” I said, ignoring his comment.
   As his friend paid, the first guy continued to stare at me in a way that made my skin crawl. The 2 Live Crew track seemed to be encouraging him, its beat and notorious theme providing an unwelcome soundtrack to his behavior.
       “You’re cute when you’re playing hard to get,” he said, lowering his voice. “Come on, what’s your number?”
     “I don’t give my number to customers,” I replied, handing them their change.
   “Fine,” he shrugged, taking a receipt and a pen from the counter. He scribbled something down and slid it toward me. “Here’s mine. Call me when you’re ready to have some fun.”
     I didn’t touch the paper. “Have a good night.”
  As they headed toward the door, he turned back. “By the way, what’s with the one-eyed bear outside? Looks like it’s seen some shit.”
       “Installation accident,” I explained for the thousandth time. “Now it’s attracting wildlife.”
     “Wildlife, huh?” he smirked. “Well, it attracted me, and I’m pretty wild.”
  I forced a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Goodnight.”
   After they left, I promptly crumpled up his number and tossed it in the trash. The song mercifully faded out, replaced by momentary silence before the next track could begin.
   The bell above the door chimed again, and my heart sank as three men with camera equipment entered. They wore matching black polo shirts with “GGW” embroidered on the breast pockets—a logo I recognized with dread as standing for “Girls Gone Wild,” the infamous video series that had exploited drunk young women throughout the late 90s and early 2000s.
   Khia’s “My Neck, My Back” began playing over the store speakers, its notoriously explicit lyrics and provocative beat creating an uncomfortably fitting soundtrack as the camera crew swaggered in.
       “Evening, sweetheart,” the lead cameraman called out, surveying the empty store. “You got any other fine ladies working tonight?”
   I crossed my arms over my chest. “Just me, and I’m not interested in whatever you’re filming.”
  He laughed, setting his camera down on the counter. “Relax, we’re just getting some snacks. Long night ahead… college party. Spring break week.”
   My stomach churned at the thought of what their “long night” would entail, given the history of the Girls Gone Wild crews. Recent documentaries had revealed disturbing guidelines that had been given to their camera operators, instructing them to be “aggressive” and “persistent” with young women who initially refused to participate.
       “Don’t you guys have better things to do?” I asked, unable to keep the disdain from my voice.
    “Just doing our job,” the second man replied, grabbing energy drinks from the cooler. “Giving people what they want.”
  “You mean exploiting drunk college girls?” I challenged.
  The third man, who had been quiet until now, approached the counter with an armful of snacks. “Hey, everyone signs a release form. It’s all consensual.”
       “Right,” I replied skeptically. “I’m sure you make sure they’re all completely sober and fully understand what they’re signing.”
   The first cameraman shrugged. “Not our problem if they regret it in the morning. That’s the business.”
  As Khia’s provocative track continued through the speakers, the three men nodded along approvingly, occasionally exchanging knowing glances that made my skin crawl.
  As they placed their items on the counter, I noticed the music was suddenly getting quieter—unusual for the store. Then, as if responding to my thought, the speakers crackled with static, followed by silence, then more static. The lights flickered briefly.
   “What’s with your sound system?” one of the men asked.
      “No idea,” I replied, scanning their energy drinks and chips.
        “Well, can you put something on? It’s creepy quiet in here.”
  Before I could respond, the sound system suddenly blasted to life with unexpected volume, but instead of music, a woman’s voice came through the speakers—strong, clear, and distinctly angry:
       “GET OUT.”
  The cameramen looked up, startled. “What the hell was that?”
    “I don’t know,” I said honestly, equally confused.
  The lights flickered again, and the voice returned through the speakers: “LEAVE HER ALONE.”
      The men exchanged uneasy glances. “Is this some kind of joke?”
       “Not one I’m in on,” I assured them, genuinely perplexed by what was happening.
   The lead cameraman scoffed. “Whatever. How much do we owe you?”
      “$37.42,” I replied, still distracted by the strange voice.
  As he handed over two twenties, the store’s temperature seemed to drop several degrees. One of the fluorescent lights above the counter began to buzz and flicker.
       “This place is weird,” the third man muttered. “Let’s get out of here.”
  They gathered their purchases quickly, clearly unsettled. As they headed for the door, the voice came through the speakers one final time, softer but no less menacing:
       “NEVER COME BACK.”
   The door closed behind them with the bell’s cheerful chime creating an odd contrast to the ominous atmosphere. As soon as they were gone, the lights stabilized, the temperature returned to normal, and the sound system began playing music again—though not the expected next track on Bob’s playlist. Instead, Gucci Crew II’s “Sally (That Girl)” filled the store, its distinctive Miami bass beat and upbeat tempo completely changing the mood.
   I stared at the ceiling speakers in bewilderment. Had Bob installed some kind of anti-harassment system without telling me? Or had our supposedly sentient radio decided to intervene on my behalf? Either way, I was grateful for the assist.
  As I pondered these questions, the bell chimed again, and a man in his forties entered. He wore jeans and a casual button-down shirt, with a confidence that seemed natural rather than forced. Unlike my previous customers, he nodded politely as he passed the counter, making his way to the coffee station.
  After preparing a cup, he approached to pay, adding a packaged sandwich to his purchase.
       “Late dinner?” I asked, scanning the items.
     “Late everything,” he replied with a tired smile. “Working overtime on a project. The glamorous life of a middle manager.”
   As Gucci Crew II continued to play—their 1987 Miami bass hit about a girl named Sally had been surprisingly successful despite its relatively simple lyrics—the man glanced at my name tag.
     “Jennifer,” he read, then noticed the one-eyed bear logo. “What happened to your mascot? Looks like it’s seen better days.”
   “Installation acc… I’m tired of explaining. An accident,” I explained. “The bear lost an eye when Bob was hanging the sign. Now it’s apparently attracting wildlife to the premises.”
       “Wildlife?” He raised an eyebrow.
    “Raccoons, mostly. Bob’s convinced they’re drawn to the one-eyed bear. He just made an announcement about it.”
  “Interesting theory,” he chuckled. “Though I imagine it has more to do with whatever’s in your dumpster than any ursine kinship.”
  I laughed, appreciating his rational assessment. “That’s what I told him, but Bob prefers the cosmic connection explanation.”
      “People do love their narratives,” he agreed, taking his coffee. “Sometimes the simple answer is too boring to accept.”
  As he spoke, his gaze drifted to the security camera in the corner, then back to me. “Everything okay here tonight? I couldn’t help but notice those guys with the cameras seemed to be giving you a hard time.”
  I was surprised he’d picked up on that. “You saw that?”
       “I was parking when they came in. Recognized the logo on their shirts—not exactly a brand known for respecting boundaries.”
     “No,” I agreed. “But something weird happened with our sound system, and they left pretty quickly.”
  He glanced up at the speakers, which were still playing Gucci Crew II. “Technology works in mysterious ways sometimes.”
  There was something knowing in his tone that made me wonder if he had somehow been involved, though I couldn’t imagine how.
      “That girl,” he said, nodding toward the speakers. “Classic track from my high school days. Gucci Crew was huge back then.”
    “You know this song?” I was surprised someone his age would recognize it.
       “I know all kinds of things,” he replied with a slight smile. “Including when someone might need a little backup.”
  Before I could question this cryptic statement, he gathered his coffee and sandwich. “Have a good night, Jennifer. And don’t worry about those camera guys coming back—I have a feeling they’ve moved on to another location.”
  He headed for the door, then paused. “Oh, and tell Bob his wildlife problem might solve itself soon. I saw a group of college students heading over to feed those raccoons on my way in. Apparently, they’re ‘TikTok famous’ now.”
  With that enigmatic parting comment, he left, the bell chiming behind him. Through the window, I watched him climb into a nondescript sedan and drive away, leaving me wondering who exactly he was and whether he had somehow orchestrated the strange voice through our speakers.
   As Gucci Crew II faded out, the store’s regular programming seemed to resume, with Bob’s classic rock playlist continuing as if nothing unusual had happened. I glanced up at the security camera, wondering if it had captured the strange audio phenomenon, and made a mental note to check the footage later.
   Outside, I could see the raccoon family gathered around the base of the one-eyed polar bear sign, illuminated by its flickering neon light. They seemed to be posing, almost deliberately, as a group of giggling college students took photos and videos on their phones. Bob’s wildlife problem was indeed becoming “TikTok famous,” and I couldn’t wait to see his reaction in the morning.
   Just another night at Chill & Fill, where the wildlife was attracted to the bear, predatory camera crews were repelled by mysterious forces, and pleasant strangers appeared just when needed—all set to a soundtrack that seemed increasingly like it had a mind of its own.