TumbleDweeeb

Bicycles, Energy Drinks, and Candy Thieves

   The Three’s Company theme song suddenly blared through the Chill & Fill’s ancient sound system, its jaunty, upbeat melody filling the store despite nobody pressing play. The cheerful tune about “come and knock on our door” and “three’s company too” echoed across the empty parking lot, creating an oddly sitcom-like atmosphere in the convenience store. As the theme reached its final notes, the sound system emitted a burst of canned laughter, as if an invisible studio audience was enjoying some unspoken joke.
   Tuesday night at Chill & Fill was dark and dismal. Rain lashed against the windows like it had a personal vendetta against the building, turning the neon sign outside into a blurry halo of blue and white light. The one-eyed polar bear mascot—now sporting not only its signature eyepatch but also a miniature umbrella that Bob had duct-taped to its paw this morning—looked particularly forlorn as water streamed down its plastic face.
   I placed a bucket beneath the newest ceiling leak, and as the first drop hit the metal bottom with a resounding ‘plink,’ the sound system erupted with canned laughter again.
       “Very funny,” I muttered to the empty store, which only triggered another round of disembodied guffaws.
   The bell above the door thunked, announcing our first customer of the evening. As the door swung open, the sound system played what could only be described as a “character entrance” sound effect, followed by eager applause.
   A man walked in pushing a full-size bicycle, water cascading off his bright yellow poncho onto the freshly mopped floor. He looked like an oversized banana that had been caught in a flood, his hair plastered to his head and water squelching from his shoes with each step. Each squelch was accompanied by a snicker from the invisible audience.
       “Hey,” he said, as if we were old friends. “Mind if I bring this in?”
     I blinked at him. “The bicycle?”
       “Yeah.” He leaned it forward slightly, as if the bike itself might convince me. “It’s pouring out there.”
   As if on cue, the store’s ancient sound system crackled to life, and the distinctive opening notes of The Eurythmics’ “Here Comes the Rain Again” filled the store. The timing was so perfect it was almost eerie—and was underscored by appreciative “oohs” from the phantom audience.
       “I can see that,” I replied, eyeing the puddle forming beneath his front tire. “But I can’t let you bring a bicycle inside.”
     “Come on,” he pleaded. “You can’t expect me to leave a custom carbon frame exposed to these elements. Do you know what water does to a derailleur?”
      “Probably the same thing it’s doing to our linoleum right now,” I pointed out.
   The sound system erupted with laughter and scattered applause, as if I’d just delivered a killer punchline.
   The cyclist looked up, confused. “Is that… a laugh track?”
      “The sound system has a mind of its own,” I explained, shrugging. “Today it thinks we’re in a sitcom.”
   A rimshot and more laughter followed my statement.
    He looked down at the expanding puddle beneath him, then back at me with the expression of someone who believed his problem should automatically become everyone else’s priority.
      “Don’t you have a storage room or something? Just for a few minutes?”
     “The back room is currently occupied by three boxes of expired chips, Bob’s emergency camping gear, and what might be the world’s largest collection of ‘Going Out of Business’ signs that we never actually used.”
   The invisible audience roared with laughter, complete with a few exaggerated knee-slaps and whistles.
   The man sighed dramatically as Annie Lennox continued to sing about rain falling on heads and memories. He glanced up at the speakers with suspicion.
      “That’s weirdly on-point,” he muttered.
    “The sound system has a mind of its own,” I explained. “Bob thinks it’s connected to the bear sign’s energy field. It started the night with the Three’s Company theme song, so consider yourself lucky it’s only playing songs about rain now.”
   A confused “wooo” sound emerged from the sound system, as if the audience wasn’t quite sure what was happening but felt obligated to react.
       “Never mind. You can leave your bike under the awning if you want. Half-covered is better than fully exposed.”
   With obvious reluctance, he wheeled his bicycle back outside, returning a moment later without it but still dripping profusely. As he walked in for the second time, the sound system played a “returning character” jingle, followed by enthusiastic clapping.
   He made a beeline for the coffee station, prepared a cup, and then wandered the aisles seemingly without purpose. Each time he accidentally bumped into a display, the audience giggled.
      “So,” he said eventually, approaching the counter with his coffee and a protein bar. “Does this weather ever let up around here?”
    “Occasionally,” I replied. “Usually right before a flood or a minor apocalypse.”
   He laughed, though I hadn’t been joking. Our town’s weather patterns had become increasingly biblical in recent years. The sound system, however, seemed to think I’d made a hilarious joke, unleashing a tsunami of laughter.
       “I’m just passing through,” he explained, raising his voice over the phantom mirth. “Cycling cross-country for charity. Though I’m starting to think I should have chosen a cause with better weather karma.”
     “What’s the charity?” I asked, scanning his items.
   “Save the Polar Bears Foundation,” he said, then noticed my name tag and its one-eyed arctic mascot. “Oh, wow. That’s a coincidence.”
  A dramatic “oooh” swept through the invisible audience, as if this were a major plot revelation.
      “Is it though?” I replied, glancing meaningfully at the ceiling speakers, which were still playing the rain-themed song as if to underscore my point.
   He paid for his coffee, looking increasingly unsettled. “Your store is… interesting.”
      “That’s one word for it.”
   As he left, the sound system played an upbeat “character exit” tune, followed by light applause. Through the window, I noticed him giving both the raccoon family outside and our one-eyed bear sign a wide berth, hurrying to check on his bicycle as if afraid it might have evolved gills in his absence.
   The Eurythmics faded out, and the store fell silent once more, save for the steady drip-drip-drip into the bucket. Each drop was punctuated by a single courtesy chuckle from the sound system, as if water dripping was the height of comedy.
   Half an hour later, the bell thunked again. The door swung open to enthusiastic cheering and what sounded like someone shouting “Hey, it’s that guy!” A man in his thirties burst in, looking harried and slightly manic. His business-casual attire—dress shirt partially untucked, tie loosened—suggested he’d come straight from an office, though his wild-eyed expression hinted at a mind that had left professionalism behind several hours ago.
   As he entered, Daft Punk’s “Technologic” suddenly blasted from the speakers, its robotic commands creating a strangely appropriate soundtrack to his frenzied movements. The phantom audience seemed to appreciate the musical selection, offering rhythmic clapping along with the beat.
   He made a beeline for the energy drink cooler, staring at the selection with the intensity of someone decoding ancient hieroglyphics. After several minutes of opening and closing the cooler door… each time looking more disappointed… he approached the counter empty-handed. Each time the cooler door closed, the audience tittered expectantly.
       “Okay,” he announced without preamble. “We have a situation.”
     “We do?” I asked.
   A single loud “HA!” erupted from the sound system.
       “There’s an energy drink,” he explained, gesturing wildly and looking momentarily startled by the disembodied laugh. “It used to be here. Blue can. Or maybe silver? Had some kind of aggressive geometry on it… lightning bolts or tribal designs or something vaguely threatening to your central nervous system.”
   I pointed toward the cooler. “We have twenty-seven varieties of liquid cardiac event back there. You’ll need to be more specific.”
   The audience howled with laughter, and someone whistled appreciatively.
   He rubbed his temples, glancing nervously at the ceiling. “You don’t understand. This isn’t just any energy drink. This one tasted like… like if anxiety had a flavor. Like synthetic citrus and bad decisions.”
       “That narrows it down to about fifteen,” I replied.
   More laughter, followed by what sounded like someone falling off a chair in hysterics.
      “Is that… a laugh track?” he asked, looking around the empty store.
    “The sound system thinks we’re in a sitcom tonight,” I explained. “Started with the Three’s Company theme song and hasn’t stopped since.”
       “Oh, great,” he muttered. “My mental breakdown now comes with a studio audience.”
   As if on cue, sympathetic “awws” filled the store, followed by encouraging applause.
   He walked back to the cooler, staring intently at each can as if willing his missing beverage to materialize. Daft Punk continued its mechanical chant, the repetitive commands seeming to mirror his increasingly desperate search. Each time he pushed aside a can in disappointment, the audience made an “oh so close” sound.
       “Maybe it got discontinued?” I suggested after watching him complete his third inventory of our energy drink selection.
   He looked personally offended by this possibility. “They can’t discontinue it. I’ve built my entire productivity model around its specific blend of taurine and regret.”
   The audience erupted into what can only be described as sitcom-worthy hysterics.
   Taking pity on him, I reached under the counter and pulled out a bright red can. “Try this. It’s new. Tastes like adrenaline and poor life choices.”
   He took it hesitantly, examining the can like it might be radioactive. “What’s it called?”
       “Redline. It’s basically legal amphetamines with a fruit punch disguise.”
   He popped the top and sniffed cautiously. “Smells like career burnout and missing deadlines.”
      “That’s the one.”
   He took a sip, then grimaced. “Oh god. That’s… aggressively effective.” Another sip. “I can already feel my eye twitching.”
   Each reaction was met with increasingly uproarious laughter, as if his caffeine crisis was the comedic highlight of the season.
      “Mission accomplished,” I said, ringing him up. “$4.99.”
   As he paid, he glanced up at the speakers. “This music is oddly fitting. The laugh track, however, is deeply unsettling.”
      “The store likes to provide appropriate soundtracks,” I explained. “The sound system has opinions. Started with Three’s Company tonight, which should have been my first clue about how this shift would go.”
    “That’s both charming and deeply concerning,” he replied, already looking more alert as the drink took effect. “Tell Bob he should organize the energy drinks by intensity level—like, ‘This one for finishing spreadsheets’ versus ‘This one for staying awake three days straight during a coding sprint.’”
   A smattering of applause, as if the audience appreciated his suggestion.
      “I’ll suggest it at our next staff meeting,” I promised.
   He left clutching his new energy source, walking with the artificially energized stride of someone whose nervous system was already questioning their beverage choices. His exit was accompanied by the sound of cheerful goodbyes from the phantom audience and a “he’ll be back” quip from what sounded like a sardonic audience member.
   The night grew quieter as the rain intensified. I restocked the candy aisle, mopped up another leak, and was just beginning to count down the register when the bell thunked one final time, precisely five minutes before closing.
   The opening bars of what sounded like a villain’s entrance theme played briefly, followed by dramatic gasps from the audience.
   I didn’t even need to look up to know who it was—Gray Hoodie, our regular teenage shoplifter. He came in every Tuesday night like clockwork, following the same routine with such consistency that Bob had started referring to him as “our quality control tester.”
   As he entered, Ludacris’ “Roll Out” began playing through the speakers, its bass-heavy beat providing a perfect soundtrack for what was about to unfold. The invisible audience seemed divided—some were cheering, others were making disapproving “ooh” sounds, as if this character was a fan-favorite anti-hero.
   He moved with practiced casualness—hood up despite being indoors, hands in his kangaroo pocket, slight limp that was clearly for style rather than necessity. He never spoke, never made eye contact, just drifted through the store like a shoplifting ghost with a sweet tooth.
   I pretended to organize the cigarette display while watching him in the security mirror. He took the scenic route around the chip aisle, then positioned himself by the candy rack, pretending to read nutritional information on a chocolate bar while his hand smoothly pocketed a peanut butter Twix—the same flavor every time.
   The audience gasped dramatically, then giggled with anticipation.
   Next came the decoy purchase. He grabbed an orange soda from the cooler and approached the counter, placing it down as if he actually intended to pay for it.
      “$1.49,” I said, following our usual script.
   He made a show of searching his pockets for money, then suddenly grabbed the soda. “Too slow, convenience store lady!” he shouted, bolting for the door with impressive agility. “Your security is trash!”
   The audience erupted into wild cheers, whistles, and applause, as if this were the climactic moment they’d been waiting for all episode.
   Ludacris continued rapping as the teen executed his weekly heist, pushing through the door and zigzagging across the wet parking lot, raising his stolen orange soda in triumphant salute to the one-eyed bear sign before disappearing into the rain.
   I made a note of the theft for inventory but didn’t bother calling it in. What would I say? “Yes, officer, it’s Tuesday again, and the kid with the sweet tooth stuck to his schedule”? Besides, Bob had a bizarre theory that the kid was actually performing some kind of ritual that kept the store safe from worse crimes—a candy sacrifice to the retail gods.
   As I wrote down the inventory adjustment, the audience gave a collective “aww,” as if they found my acceptance of the weekly theft endearing.
   I turned the sign to “Closed,” locked the door, and began counting down the register. The rain had finally eased to a gentle patter, and through the window, I could see the raccoon family returning to their makeshift shelter beneath the bear sign, arranging discarded candy wrappers from previous Tuesday thefts into what looked suspiciously like a shrine.
   As I finished my closing duties, the Three’s Company theme song began playing again, signaling what was clearly the end of this episode of “Chill & Fill.” The phantom audience offered enthusiastic applause, scattered whistles, and what sounded like someone shouting “Best episode yet!”
   Just another night at Chill & Fill, where the weather was always aggressive, the drinks were questionable chemical experiments, and teenage crime operated with the precision of a Swiss watch. Above it all, our one-eyed polar bear mascot kept its eternal vigil, its neon gaze seemingly winking at the invisible audience as the credits of our imaginary sitcom rolled silently through the night.