TumbleDweeeb

The Card Hunter, The Minister, and The Modern Shaggy

   Jennifer called in sick AGAIN. This marks the seventh time this month, which I’m pretty sure qualifies her for some kind of absenteeism world record. Today’s excuse was “car troubles,” which is both entirely plausible and completely suspect given that she used the same excuse last Thursday.
     Part of me is annoyed that I’m stuck covering yet another of her shifts, part of me is jealous of her audacity, and a larger part is just resigned to the fact that I might as well be considered full-time at this point.
   I arrived for my Wednesday shift at Chill n’Fill to find Bob in what could only be described as a crisis management stance… one hand clutching a megaphone and the other gripping what appeared to be a stack of official looking documents with enough government seals to impress even the most dedicated enthusiast.
       “Attention valued customers and potential witnesses!” Bob’s voice crackled through the megaphone, causing the handful of confused shoppers to freeze mid-snack selection. “The management wishes to clarify that the substance found in our nacho cheese dispenser last Tuesday was NOT—I repeat, NOT—drugs, or in any way likely to cause any illness!”
   The customers exchanged nervous glances as Rage Against the Machine’s “Bulls on Parade” began blasting from our bear-mounted speakers, providing an unnecessarily intense soundtrack to Bob’s impromptus public health announcement.
       “Any high experienced after consumption is a normal side effect of our new ‘Electric Yellow’ cheese formula and definitely not a sign of overdose,” Bob continued, his voice competing with Zack de la Rocha’s intense vocals. “Additionally, any third eyes, extra fingers, or enhanced intuitive abilities that our bear has developed are purely coincidental and unrelated to Chill n’Fill’s products! I like to modify things.”
   I slipped behind the counter, whispering to Diego, the afternoon shift guy, “What the hell is happening?”
      “Health department visit,” Diego muttered. “Someone reported their kid having hallucinating dreams after eating nachos here last week.”
    “Furthermore,” Bob shouted as customers began quietly abandoning their shopping baskets and backing toward the exits, “we have thoroughly cleaned the cheese reservoir with approved chemicals that are only mildly more concerning than the original contamination!”
   As the last customer fled, Bob lowered the megaphone, looking surprisingly satisfied. “Crisis averted, Karlee! Nothing scares off a potential lawsuit like suggesting the alternative might be worse!” He thrust the official papers toward me. “File these in the ‘Never Happened’ cabinet and let’s get ready for the evening rush.”
       “We have a ‘Never Happened’ cabinet?” I asked, leafing through what turned out to be takeout menus arranged to look like government documents.
    “We do now!” Bob declared, producing an empty Pringles can with “NEVER HAPPENED” written on it in Sharpie. “Modern problems require modern solutions!”
   With that pearl of retail wisdom, Bob retreated to his office, leaving me to man the now-empty store as Rage Against the Machine faded into blessed silence. Great. Another night covering Jennifer’s shift while she’s probably fixing her “car trouble” at that new bar downtown. Though I gotta admit, this beats my usual Wednesday night of binge-watching cooking competitions and napping.
   The bell chimed at precisely 7:13 PM, signaling our first post-cheese-crisis customer—a lanky, intense-looking guy in his twenties wearing a vintage band t-shirt and more keychains than any reasonable person would need. His eyes had the glazed-yet-focused look of someone on day three of a quest that had long since crossed from hobby into obsession.
   As if sensing his energy, the store’s speakers switched to Eminem’s “Stan,” the haunting story of obsession providing an eerily appropriate soundtrack.
       “Excuse me,” he said, approaching the counter with the careful precision of someone who might bolt at any sudden movement. “Do you sell Cokehead cards? The collectible ones by Callen-Hansini?”
     “Uh, I think so?” I replied, vaguely recalling a display of edgy collector cards near the energy drinks. “Let me check.”
   I led him to the small rack near the back where, sure enough, small packages of what looked like trading cards with disturbing cartoon graphics were displayed. The logo featured a wide-eyed, half naked cartoon character with just a piece of cloth covering her breasts.
       “Yes!” he exclaimed, falling to his knees before the display with religious reverence. “Please tell me you have new stock. I’ve been to seventeen stores today. I only need one card. One final card!”
   The chorus of “Stan” played overhead as he frantically began examining each sealed package. The synchronicity was unnerving.
       “I’ve been collecting for three years,” he explained, not looking up from his examination. “399 out of 400 cards. So close. So damn close to a complete set.”
     “Which one are you missing?” I asked, both concerned and fascinated by his intensity.
      “The rarest of the rare,” he whispered reverently. “The ‘Buzzard Attacks Wolf’ card from the ‘Free Log’ subset. Only forty-five were ever printed. It’s like finding a unicorn made of winning lottery tickets. It’s the rarest Easter egg.”
   He opened package after package with the practiced efficiency of an ER surgeon, each reveal followed by a groan of disappointment.
       “The ‘Free Log’ subset was controversial even by Callen-Hansini standards,” he explained between packages. “The artist was allegedly on a “lifestyle” vision quest when he designed them. He hid images inside images that only very few knew about. This specific card is that the buzzard is said to represent media, while the wolf symbolizes independent creativity.”
      “Or,” I suggested, “it’s just a buzzard attacking a wolf because the artist thought it looked cool?”
   He looked at me with genuine pity. “You clearly don’t understand the depth of Callen-Hansini’s metaphors on art culture.”
      “Clearly,” I agreed, watching as he created a mountain of discarded packaging.
   After purchasing and opening every package we had—forty-three in total—he slumped against the display, defeated.
       “Nothing,” he whispered. “Not even a common ‘Roadkill Raccoon’ or ‘Dumpster Possum’ from that subset.” He gathered the cards he’d acquired with the careful attention of a parent collecting a wounded child. “The quest continues.”
    “Good luck,” I offered as he headed toward the door, Eminem’s obsessive ballad fading out perfectly with his exit.
      “If anyone comes selling the ‘Buzzard Attacks Wolf’,” he called back with deadly seriousness, “tell them reddit user: Juhnkit has dibs. It’s a code in the Cokehead community.”
   I promised I would, making a mental note to immediately forget this request as soon as he left. Jennifer would have probably sold him the card without even realizing its value—her knowledge of collectibles extends to “shiny things” and “not shiny things.” At least I’m aware enough to recognize this dude’s borderline obsession.
   The bell had barely finished chiming his exit when it rang again, announcing the arrival of our second notable customer of the evening—a distinguished-looking older gentleman carrying a worn leather Bible and a surprisingly modern iced coffee.
   As if our bear DJ had developed sentience and a flair for irony, Kanye West’s “Jesus Walks” began playing through the speakers, its religious themes and street beats creating an interesting contrast to the mans traditional appearance.
      “Good evening, young lady,” he greeted me warmly. “Fascinating music selection. Problematic in places, but I appreciate its authentic spiritual yearning.”
    “Thanks?” I replied, unsure if I was being complimented or lectured. “Can I help you find anything?”
      “Oh, I’m just waiting for my bus,” he explained. “It’s not due for another twenty minutes, and I’ve found that convenience stores offer the most interesting cross-section of humanity for observation.”
   He wandered toward our small seating area, but before he could settle in, the bell chimed again, admitting a harried-looking businessman talking loudly on his phone.
       “I’m telling you, Tim, the guy sold his soul to get where he is,” the businessman practically shouted into his device. “Nobody goes from bankruptcy to tech millionaire in six months without making a deal with the devil. It’s just not natural!”
   I watched as the mans back stiffened, his head slowly turning toward the businessman continuing his loudly spiritual accusations.
      “I know you don’t believe in that stuff,” the businessman continued, grabbing a coffee and pouring it one-handed while still clutching his phone, “but how else do you explain it? The guy was living in his car, then suddenly has the algorithm that every social media company wants? Classic soul selling bargaining.”
   The man cleared his throat loudly. When that failed to interrupt the businessman’s supernatural speculation, he approached directly.
      “Excuse me, sir,” the man interjected firmly but politely. “I couldn’t help overhearing your talk about selling souls to the devil. I am a preacher.”
   The businessman blinked in surprise. “Uh, I’ll call you back, Tim,” he mumbled into the phone before facing the man. “No offense, father, it’s just a figure of speech.”
     “I’m not Catholic, I’m Baptist,” the preacher corrected. “But I must tell you plainly: no one can sell their soul to the devil. It’s not possible. You cannot sell what you don’t possess.”
       “I was just saying—”
     “I understand the saying,” the minister continued. “But such talk isn’t just loose words—it spreads wrong ideas. The very notion comes from old misunderstandings.”
   Kanye’s music provided a surreal backdrop as the businessman looked desperately toward the exit.
      “As Cotton Mather once said, ‘That there is a Devil is a thing doubted by none but such as are under the influences of the Devil.’” The minister smiled kindly. “What I mean is, the devil is real enough, but he can’t buy what cannot be sold.”
    “I just meant the guy got lucky,” the businessman attempted.
       “Then say that instead!” the preacher encouraged. “When we blame dark magic for others’ success, we miss the real story. We don’t see their hard work, their God-given talents, or even plain good fortune.”
   The businessman glanced at me with a silent plea for rescue. I suddenly became very interested in rearranging the gum display.
      “Even these strange ‘Cokehead’ cards,” the minister gestured toward the display, “tell better stories than talk of soul-selling. They may be odd pictures, but at least they show some kind of boundaries within the image—something we can see happening.”
     “The… what cards?” the businessman asked, clearly grasping at any change of subject.
      “Those cartoon trading cards,” the minister explained. “My point is simple: watch your words. They shape how we think. When we speak of devil-deals, we plant bad seeds.”
   “Right,” the businessman nodded rapidly. “Very interesting. Would you look at the time? I should go.”
   He hastily threw money on the counter for his coffee and fled, leaving the minister looking slightly disappointed at losing his audience.
      “Sorry for the sermon,” he said to me as Kanye’s track faded out. “But loose talk matters. Words have power.”
    “I’m sure they do,” I agreed, handing him his change. “Though I’m pretty sure those Cokehead cards are just meant to be shocking, not meaningful.”
      “Everything means something if you look deep enough,” he replied with a gentle smile. “Even that one-eyed bear outside your store.”
    “That’s just a sign installation accident,” I explained. “Bob keeps adding things to make it look intentional.”
       “Like life itself,” he nodded. “We suffer accidents, then try to make them look planned. We’re all one-eyed bears in our way, adding decorations to cover our scars.”
   Before I could protest further, his bus arrived, and with a friendly wave, he departed to presumably find more people in need of spiritual correction.
   The store fell quiet momentarily before the speakers sparked to life with Cypress Hill’s “Hits from the Bong,” announcing our third memorable customer of the evening before I even heard the bell chime.
   He shambled in like a modern incarnation of Shaggy Rogers—lanky frame, scruffy goatee, slouchy beanie, and the permanently relaxed expression of someone who found everything simultaneously fascinating and hilarious. The resemblance was so striking I half-expected a Great Dane to follow him inside.
      “Like, hey man,” he greeted, his voice a perfect lazy drawl. “Do you guys sell, uhh, those disposable vape things? The THC ones?”
    “We do,” I confirmed, gesturing toward the locked display case. “ID required, though.”
   “Oh, for sure, for sure,” he nodded, digging through what appeared to be the most disorganized wallet in existence. “I got it here somewhere, man. Unless the aliens took it when they probed me last week. That was wild.”
  I waited as he extracted fortune cookie papers, expired coupons, and what looked suspiciously like a pressed leaf from his wallet.
       “Just joking about the aliens,” he clarified with a giggle. “Unless they’re real. Are they real? I read this thing online that said the government knows but they’re keeping it quiet because aliens are, like, allergic to our money or something?”
    “I don’t think that’s a thing,” I replied as he finally produced an ID that, surprisingly, showed he was 27 despite looking like a college sophomore.
      “Cool, cool,” he nodded sagely. “That’s exactly what someone who knows about the aliens would say, though.”
   As I unlocked the display case, he wandered to our snack aisle, returning with an armful of chips, cookies, and three different kinds of beef jerky.
      “Gotta stock up,” he explained. “Me and my buddy are having a Scooby-Doo marathon tonight. The original series, not that new stuff. The classics, you know? When the monsters were just old dudes in masks trying to scare people away from real estate opportunities.”
    “Sounds fun,” I offered, ringing up his impressive munchie stockpile along with the vape.
       “It’s like, profound, man,” he continued, watching me bag his items with fascination. “Every mystery has a rational explanation. No real ghosts, just humans being greedy. That’s deep.”
     “Very philosophical,” I agreed.
    “I think that’s why I like getting high and watching it,” he confided. “It’s like, comforting? The good guys always win, the bad guys always get caught, and there’s always pizza or sandwiches after.”
   Cypress Hill’s ode to cannabis consumption provided the perfect soundtrack as he counted out exact change—mostly in quarters that he’d apparently been collecting in a sock, based on their lint coverage.
   As he gathered his purchases, he noticed the bear sign through the window. “Whoa! Your bear has one eye and is playing my jam! That is, like, cosmic synchronicity or something!”
      “It’s just an installation accident,” I began my now-familiar explanation. “Bob keeps adding—”
    “No way, man,” he interrupted with genuine awe. “That bear has SEEN things. One eye because it’s focusing on what’s important. The third eye, you know? Spiritual vision.”
      “I’m pretty sure it’s just a broken sign,” I insisted.
    “That’s what they want you to think,” he replied with a knowing wink. “Bears know the truth, man. They’re like, forest prophets.”
   With that cryptic ursine wisdom, he departed, still nodding to the Cypress Hill track that somehow continued playing even after the door closed behind him.
   I spent the rest of my shift contemplating the strange parade of humanity I’d witnessed—a man on an obsessive quest for the perfect cardboard buzzard, a minister waging war against casual devil-talk, and a modern Shaggy finding philosophical depth in cartoon mysteries.
    Just another night at Chill n’Fill, where Bob’s drugs in the cheese announcements were somehow the least weird part of my evening, and our one-eyed polar bear mascot had somehow been transformed from a broken sign into a mystical prophet, metaphorical fallen angel, and collector of cosmic truth—all while playing surprisingly appropriate soundtrack selections for each bizarre encounter.
   I made a mental note to ask for a raise. Dealing with this level of weird definitely warranted hazard pay. And maybe I’d ask for Jennifer’s job security secrets too—because somehow she manages to keep her position despite her never-ending series of car troubles. I’m simultaneously annoyed and impressed.