TumbleDweeeb

Profanity, Politics, and Paranormal Activity

     Jennifer called in sick again with what she claimed was “a severe case of food poisoning,” which is either genuinely unfortunate timing or the most transparent excuse I’ve heard since my roommate said our cat deleted our rent payment. Whatever. More questionable night shifts for me, Karlee, professional sarcasm dispenser and reluctant convenience store philosopher.
   I arrived to find the one-eyed polar bear sign blaring the South Park theme song—not the actual theme, but Bob’s bizarre rendition where he’d clearly replaced “South Park” with “Chill n’Fill” in a voice that suggested he was either being strangled or attempting opera for the first time. The modified lyrics about our “friendly faces everywhere” and “humble folks without temptation” would have been hilarious if they weren’t so painfully off-key.
       “Audio branding enhancement, Karlee!” Bob shouted over his own terrible singing, wobbling dangerously on his stepladder as he attached what appeared to be a small, crudely-drawn cardboard speech bubble to the bear saying “Oh my God, they killed my eye!”
     “Bob,” I sighed, dropping my bag emblazoned with pins reading ‘Sarcasm: just one of the services I offer’ and ‘I put the “fun” in dysfunctional,’ “are we really going for a South Park theme? Aren’t we trying to attract customers rather than traumatize them?”
       “Pop culture relevance!” Bob declared, narrowly avoiding electrocution as he crossed two wires that definitely shouldn’t meet. “Our marketing consultant says topical references increase engagement with the key demographic!”
     “And which demographic is that? People who enjoy watching retail workers slowly lose their will to live?” I muttered, but Bob had already cranked the volume higher, his modified theme song now loud enough to vibrate the windows.
   I clocked in, wondering if Jennifer’s “food poisoning” was contagious and if I could catch it before my shift properly began.
   The door chimed at exactly 9:17 PM, right as Bob’s playlist mercifully shifted to Eminem’s “Must Be the Ganja” from his 2009 Relapse album. A group of four elementary school boys bundled against the Colorado winter entered, arguing loudly among themselves.
      “I’m telling you guys,” said the chubbiest one in a red coat, his voice surprisingly deep for a child, “the new Terrance and Phillip movie is going to be totally awesome!”
    “You say that about everything,” replied a boy in an orange parka, his voice muffled to near incomprehension by his tightly-drawn hood. “Remember when you said that gas station sushi was ‘totally awesome’ and we all got food poisoning?”
    “That was different!” Red Coat protested. “And it was still awesome until the vomiting started!”
   The boy in the blue hat with a red pom-pom rolled his eyes dramatically. “You guys are both stupid. The movie’s going to suck because everything sucks in this crappy town.”
   The fourth boy, wearing a green ushanka, was busy examining our limited kosher food section. “Hey guys, they actually have kosher hot dogs here! That’s pretty impressive for a gas station in the middle of nowhere.”
   Eminem’s altered-state anthem continued playing as the boys scattered throughout the store, grabbing an alarming amount of candy, chips, and soda. I kept a careful eye on them, knowing from experience that groups of unsupervised children were essentially shoplifting machines disguised as people.
      “Dude!” said the boy in the blue hat, noticing the music. “They’re playing that song about weed!”
    “Oh my God,” the chubby one exclaimed. “This gas station is playing songs about drugs! This place is awesome!”
   The boy in the green hat frowned. “Isn’t it inappropriate to play this kind of music in a convenience store where children might hear it?”
      “That’s what makes it awesome!” the chubby boy argued, grabbing another handful of chocolate bars.
   They brought their haul to the counter, pooling crumpled bills and loose change from their pockets. The boy in the red coat seemed to be the unofficial treasurer.
      “We have $27.43,” he announced. “Is that enough for all this?”
   I scanned their items, watching the total climb with each beep. “It comes to $36.82.”
       “Aw, weak!” the boy in the blue hat complained. “Now we have to put stuff back. This is exactly like when the government takes our money through taxation but doesn’t provide adequate services in return.”
   The others stared at him.
      “What? My dad talks about it all the time.”
   After some heated debate that included threats, insults about each other’s mothers, and a strangely sophisticated critique of US fiscal policy from the blue-hatted boy, they reluctantly removed some of their snacks.
      “That’ll be $27.12,” I said, re-scanning their reduced haul.
   As I took their money, the chubby boy noticed my name tag. “What happened to your bear? He looks like he got stabbed in the eye!”
      “Installation accident,” I explained, channeling my inner Jennifer. “The sign fell during mounting and the bear lost an eye. Bob keeps adding things to distract from it, like that South Park speech bubble.”
    “Your boss sounds like my dad when he tries to fix the car,” the boy in the blue hat remarked. “He just keeps making it worse until my mom calls an actual mechanic.”
   The boy with the muffled voice said something I couldn’t quite catch.
      “He said the bear looks like it died and came back as a zombie,” the green-hatted boy translated.
    “A zombie bear would be so cool!” the chubby boy exclaimed. “It could eat brains and honey!”
      “Bears don’t become zombies,” the blue-hatted boy argued with the certainty only a fourth-grader can muster. “Only people and sometimes pets in very specific circumstances involving ancient Indian burial grounds.”
    “Nuh-uh! My cousin said any animal can become a zombie if the conditions are right!”
      “Your cousin also said he saw Bigfoot behind the Dairy Queen, and it turned out to be the school janitor in a fur coat!”
   Their argument continued as they gathered their purchases. The muffled-voice boy said something else I couldn’t understand.
      “He says thanks for the candy,” the green-hatted boy translated. “And also that society’s obsession with consumerism is leading us down a dark path.”
    “You’re welcome, tiny philosopher,” I replied, somewhat impressed by the existential criticism from elementary schoolers.
   As they left, still bickering about zombie bears and the economics of convenience stores, Eminem’s track faded out and was replaced by Marilyn Manson’s gothic cover of Phil Collins’ “In The Air Tonight,” its dark, industrial reimagining filling the store with ominous synth bass and breathy, menacing vocals.
   The bell chimed again, and as if summoned by the music’s ominous tones, a middle-aged man in a tight suit stormed in, his face flushed with anger. A red “VOTE FOR GARRISON” button was pinned to his lapel.
      “This town is going to hell in a handbasket!” he announced to no one in particular, the haunting Manson cover creating an almost comically perfect backdrop for his entrance. “Do you know what they’re teaching kids in school these days? Sex education! To fourth graders!”
   He made his way to the coffee station, continuing his rant without pausing for breath. “When I was a kid, we learned about the birds and the bees behind the gym from the older kids, like God intended!”
   I nodded noncommittally, having learned from my three weeks at Chill n’Fill that engaging with ranting customers only prolonged the inevitable.
      “And another thing!” he continued, slamming a creamer into his coffee with unnecessary force that perfectly matched Manson’s distorted guitar chunking in the background. “These environmental regulations are killing small businesses! My brother-in-law runs a chemical disposal company, and now he has to ‘properly dispose of waste’ instead of just dumping it in the lake like we’ve always done!”
   He approached the counter, adding a package of antacids to his purchase. “The stomach problems in this town are because of the fluoride in the water, not the lake chemicals. That’s just science.”
      “That’ll be $4.87,” I said, hoping to move things along before he could connect Manson’s music to the moral decay of society.
   As he handed over his money, he noticed my name tag with our one-eyed mascot. “What in tarnation happened to that bear? Looks like it got caught in the culture wars!”
       “Sign installation accident,” I explained simply, channeling Jennifer’s brevity. “The speech bubble is Bob’s attempt at humor.”
     “Well, at least someone’s having a worse day than me,” he grumbled. “Though I bet it’s a liberal bear. They’re all either liberal or Russian.”
   I didn’t bother asking how he could determine a cartoon polar bear’s political affiliation or why Russian bears would be employed by an Alabama convenience store. The man continued his monologue as I made change, Manson’s cover building tension in the background like a personal soundtrack to his outrage.
      “You know what’s wrong with this country? Everything! And no one’s doing anything about it except complaining, which is what I’m doing, but at least I’m honest about it!”
    “Have a nice evening,” I offered as he grabbed his coffee.
       “Evening’s already ruined,” he muttered. “Town meeting tonight about putting in a new stoplight on Main Street. Total waste of taxpayer money. We don’t need the government telling us when to stop and go!”
   He left, still mumbling about the nanny state and bears of questionable political loyalty. Through the window, I could see him climb into an enormous SUV with multiple bumper stickers expressing strong opinions about various social issues.
   I was sweeping up some spilled coffee when Manson’s cover finally reached its dramatic conclusion and the music shifted to Yelawolf and Shooter Jennings’ moody collaboration “Rock & Roll Baby.” The bell chimed for a third time, the brooding track about childhood struggles and lost innocence providing the perfect backdrop for our next visitor.
   In walked a woman with wild, frizzy red hair and at least fifteen cats airbrushed on her sweatshirt. She scanned the store with the suspicious gaze of someone who believed convenience stores were secret government monitoring stations.
      “Do you sell aluminum foil?” she asked without preamble. “The extra-strength kind, not the regular. Regular doesn’t block the signals.”
     “Aisle three,” I directed her, strangely moved by how perfectly her paranoia matched the song’s moody, almost psychedelic soundscape. “Household goods.”
   She hurried to the aisle, returning with our entire stock of heavy-duty aluminum foil—six rolls. She also grabbed a large bag of cat food and three cans of energy drink.
      “They’re planning something big,” she informed me as I scanned her items. “The visitors. I’ve seen their ships over the lake. The government denies it, of course, but what else is new?”
     “The aliens?” I asked, immediately regretting engaging.
      “Aliens, interdimensional beings, lizard people—labels don’t matter,” she said with a dismissive wave. “What matters is they’re monitoring us through our dental fillings and only aluminum can disrupt their frequencies.”
    “That’ll be $43.78,” I said, hoping to redirect the conversation before we ventured further into conspiracy territory.
   As she dug through her purse—which seemed to contain everything from crystals to what appeared to be a small taxidermied squirrel—she noticed my name tag with our one-eyed polar bear.
      “Your bear has one eye,” she observed. “That’s significant. The Cyclops was a guardian against otherworldly intrusion in ancient mythology. This store is protected.”
    “It’s just a sign installation accident,” I explained, mentally noting that Jennifer’s standard response was getting plenty of use tonight. “Bob keeps adding things to make it look intentional.”
   She leaned in close, lowering her voice. “There are no accidents. Your Bob is either one of them or one of us. The one-eyed bear is a signal to those who know how to read the signs.”
   She handed over a fifty-dollar bill that smelled faintly of cat food and patchouli. “Keep the change. You’ll need it when the economy crashes next month during the cosmic alignment.”
   Before I could thank her or question the cosmic alignment, she had gathered her foil and cat food. “Protect your pineal gland,” she advised seriously. “That’s how they get in. Fluoride calcifies it, making you susceptible to their thought control. I haven’t brushed my teeth in seven years.”
     That explained a lot.
       “The bear knows,” she added cryptically as she left. “One eye sees more than two when it’s looking in the right direction.”
   I watched through the window as she loaded her purchases into a car covered in bumper stickers about UFOs, government conspiracies, and the healing power of crystals. The dashboard appeared to be lined with aluminum foil already.
   As Yelawolf and Shooter Jennings’ haunting track faded out, the store speakers began playing Bob’s terrible South Park theme remix again, its jarring tones a stark contrast to the moody song that preceded it.
   I glanced up at the clock—still three hours to go on my shift at the rebranded convenience store with its one-eyed polar bear mascot now sporting a South Park-inspired speech bubble. Just another night covering for Jennifer at Chill n’Fill, where the music ranged from Eminem’s altered states to Manson’s gothic reimaginings to Yelawolf’s childhood laments, all while serving South Park children, ranting politicians, and conspiracy theorists in what felt increasingly like an elaborate cosmic joke at my expense.
   As Bob’s voice cracked on the final notes of his theme song remix, I wondered if Jennifer’s “narcolepsy with jazz hands” was contagious—and if so, how quickly I could catch it.