TumbleDweeeb

Limitations, Lamentations, and Lyrical Coincidences

   Jennifer called in sick again. This time her excuse was that her “goldfish blew bubbles” which is either some elaborate euphemism I’m not hip enough to understand or the weakest excuse in the history of employment. Either way, I’m covering her shift for the eighth time this month. At this point, I’m starting to think Jennifer is less an actual employee and more a theoretical concept we all pretend exists.
   Thursday night at Chill n’Fill, and the one-eyed polar bear watches over all with its perpetual neon wink. My shift began with Bob’s latest innovation: a motivational sticky note on the register reading “Remember: No Refunds on Dignity.” When I asked what it meant, he just tapped his temple and whispered “preventative psychology” before moonwalking back to his office. Pure poetry from the man who once tried to pay us in “experience tokens.”
   The radio plays Pearl Jam’s “Even Flow” as I organize the cigarette display, alphabetizing brands with methodical precision that Jennifer would never bother with. (Last week I found Marlboros filed under “Red Roof” because, and I quote from her note, “the packages remind me of little houses.”) The night feels heavy with potential chaos—Thursday’s specialty.
   The entrance bell announces our first philosopher just after nine. A woman in her thirties enters, projecting the controlled panic of someone fleeing a situation. Her phone glows accusingly in her hand as if it personally offended her grandmother.
   She’s followed, seconds later, by a man wearing desperation like a cologne that was on clearance for obvious reasons. He moves with frantic energy, gesturing wildly enough that I mentally calculate the distance to any breakable merchandise.
       “Melissa, please—just talk to me!” he pleads, catching her elbow.
   She yanks away. “I told you to stop following me!”
      “You can’t just drop a bomb like that and walk away!”
    “Watch me.” She turns, facing him squarely. “I need space, Derek. You’re suffocating me.”
   The store suddenly feels smaller than what it seems, my presence intrusive in their personal apocalypse. I pretend to reorganize energy drinks while maintaining situational awareness—a skill I’ve perfected from working night shifts that Jennifer consistently avoids.
      “I just want to understand,” he insists. “One minute we’re fine, the next you’re saying I’m ‘too intense.’ What does that even mean?”
    “It means exactly what I said. I can’t handle you right now—you’re too much!” Her voice rises with each word. “The constant texts, always needing reassurance, questioning everything I do. I’m drowning!”
   His face crumples like discarded receipt paper. “I just care about you.”
      “No,” she corrects. “You care about controlling the situation. There’s a difference.”
    “That’s not fair.”
      “Neither is making me responsible for your emotional state.” She grabs a bottle of water from the cooler, approaches the counter where I’m trying to telepathically become invisible. “I need a pack of Marlboro Lights too.”
   I ring her up silently, respecting the gravity of their collapsing universe while mentally drafting the text I’ll send Jennifer later about all the drama she’s missing.
      “Melissa,” he tries again. “Just dinner. We can talk this through.”
    “I need to stop,” she enunciates carefully, “because I can’t handle a person who’s too much right now. I’ve got my own demons to wrangle.”
   She pays, gathering her purchases. “Don’t follow me, Derek. I mean it.”
    As she exits, he stands frozen, shoulders slumped in surrender. After seconds that stretch like Bob’s excuses for not fixing the bathroom light, he purchases a Red Bull and follows her path outside—maintaining careful distance.
   Pearl Jam fades, replaced by unexpected silence. Then, eerily, the distinctive opening notes of the Tales from the Darkside theme music emerge from our speakers. The hair on my arms rises as the ominous tones fill the store. If Jennifer were here, she’d probably hide in the stockroom—the woman who once called in sick because she “saw a suspicious cloud that might be a ghost.”
   The Tales from the Darkside theme continues its sinister progression as our second visitor arrives—a woman in her late twenties wearing cocktail attire that suggests her evening began somewhere considerably more upscale. Her careful, deliberate steps betray her intoxication more than her flushed cheeks.
      “Evenin’,” she greets, words slightly rounded at the edges. “Y’all got those little bottles of wine? The cute ones?”
   I point toward our limited alcohol section. “Back cooler. Next to the energy drinks that Jennifer alphabetized by ‘pretty colors’ last month.”
   She navigates the journey with theatrical concentration, returning victorious with a small bottle of pink moscato. “Victory,” she announces, placing it ceremoniously on the counter.
       “ID?” I request.
   She produces a driver’s license from a clutch purse, nearly dropping several credit cards in the process. “Is Mercury in retrograde or something? Men are *wild* tonight.”
   I verify her age, processing her purchase. “Rough date?”
      “Not anymore!” She laughs. “I walked out. Left him sitting at Macaroni Grill mid-appetizer.”
    “Dramatic.”
      “Necessary,” she corrects, leaning conspiratorially across the counter. “You know what he said to me? He said he’s ‘between opportunities right now’ and might not be able to take me to Aruba next month. Like, excuse me? A real man doesn’t have to work. A real man figures it out.”
   I maintain neutral expression, a skill perfected from listening to Bob’s morning announcements about his “visionary retail concepts.” “That’s certainly a perspective.”
      “It’s facts,” she insists, unscrewing her wine with immediate urgency. “My daddy always said, ‘Baby girl, never trust a man who counts pennies.’”
     “So… financial stability isn’t important?”
      “Financial stability is everything! That’s my point!” She takes a significant sip. “But complaining about it? That’s unattractive. Just make it happen. That’s what men did in the past. They didn’t whine about ‘job markets’ and ‘realistic expectations.’”
   She pauses, doubt clouding her certainty. “But maybe I overreacted? He did order me those calamari things I like…”
   The Tales from the Darkside theme reaches its unsettling conclusion, lingering in the air like the question of whether Jennifer’s goldfish really needed her attention or if she’s at that concert she’s been posting about all week on Instagram.
       “What do you think?” she asks suddenly. “Am I being high-maintenance, or does he need to step up?”
    “Those aren’t mutually exclusive possibilities,” I offer, channeling the wisdom of someone who’s witnessed the full spectrum of human relationships unfold between the beef jerky display and the lottery ticket machine.
   She considers this, nodding slowly. “Philosophy at the Chill n’Fill. I respect it.” Another sip of wine. “Maybe I’ll text him. Or maybe I won’t. He should be worried, you know? Wondering where I went.”
       “He’s probably still at Macaroni Grill.”
    “With the calamari,” she says sadly. “All alone.”
   “With your purse,” I add, noting its absence.
   Horror dawns slowly across her features. “Oh my God, my purse! My actual purse, not this little thing!” She frantically pulls out her phone. “I need to call him. Wait—should I call him? That seems desperate.”
      “More desperate than leaving your purse?”
    “Good point. Tactical retreat.” She dials, stepping outside for privacy, wine clutched like emotional support.
   Through the window, I watch her animated conversation, apparently negotiating terms of purse retrieval. The Tales from the Darkside theme fades completely, leaving momentary silence that I fill by imagining Jennifer trying to convince her goldfish to blow more bubbles for her Instagram story.
   Ten minutes before midnight, our 3rd visitor arrives. Mid-thirties, business casual attire suggesting office job recently vacated, expression of someone running on autopilot.
       “Evening,” he greets, approaching the counter directly. “Two packs of Newport Kings, please.”
     I reach for the cigarettes, routine transaction imminent. “Two packs?”
   The exact moment those words leave my mouth, the radio erupts with the opening notes of “California Love” by Tupac. The coincidence hangs in the air, both of us registering the moment with the kind of cosmic awareness that Jennifer probably thinks she has when she claims her mirrors are “vibrating at the frequency of universal truth and a second dimension.”
   His face splits into unexpected delight. “Did you plan that?”
     “I don’t control our weird fucking radio,” I confirm. “Maybe a cosmic intervention. It does this sometimes—like it can read minds or something.”
   “That’s…” he searches for words. “That’s actually perfect. I’m driving to California tomorrow morning.”
      “Seriously?”
    “Job transfer. Been planning it for months.” He accepts the cigarettes. “But it feels significant somehow, hearing that right as I buy my road trip smokes.”
   I calculate his total. “$19.26. About the same price as a goldfish emergency vet visit, I’d imagine.”
      “Worth every penny for the soundtrack.” He hands over a twenty. “Sometimes the universe winks, you know?”
    “Our bear does, too,” I gesture toward the neon mascot. “Though that’s less cosmic significance and more Bob’s refusal to pay for proper installation.”
   He laughs. “Maybe it’s a sign the move is right. God knows I’ve been second-guessing everything.”
       “California calling?”
    “More like California dragging me reluctantly. But maybe it’ll be good.” He pockets his cigarettes. “Thanks for the musical omen.”
   After he departs, I’m left contemplating the night’s peculiar trinity: boundaries established and crossed, relationship economics debated and reconsidered, and musical synchronicity offering cosmic reassurance.
   The one-eyed polar bear maintains its eternal vigilance as I sweep floors, wipe counters, and reflect. Another night at Chill n’Fill concludes, where human dramas unfold beneath fluorescent lights—heartbreak, intoxicated philosophy, and signs from the universe delivered through convenience store transactions.
   Tomorrow will bring new characters, new conflicts, new coincidences. The polar bear will keep winking, knowing we’re all just passing through, leaving stories in our wake. And Jennifer will probably call in sick again because her goldfish needs therapy or her houseplant looks sad or whatever excuse she pulls from her apparently bottomless bag of absurd justifications.
   But honestly? These night shifts aren’t so bad. There’s a weird magic to this place after dark—a liminal space where strangers reveal their souls between energy drink purchases and lottery tickets. Plus, I get to document it all for my “Convenience Store Confessionals” blog that’s slowly gaining followers. Not that I’d ever tell Bob about it. Some things, like Jennifer’s actual work schedule or the origin of that mysterious stain near the hot dog roller, are better left unexplained.