TumbleDweeeb

Dead City Nights, Reclaimed Labels, and Peeking Through

   Jennifer called in sick again—this time claiming her “clock had a broken gear” which might have been vaguely plausible in 1875 but seems highly suspect in our digital age. I’m starting to think she has a secret life as an international spy, given her increasingly creative excuses and suspicious Friday night absences. Or maybe she’s just at the bar again, enjoying happy hour while I ponder the existential questions that only arise during night shifts at a convenience store.
   I arrived for my shift to find Bob frantically arranging what appeared to be handwritten signs around our one-eyed polar bear mascot. The poor bear, which had begun life as a dignified if generic logo, now resembled a protest placard with fur, covered in Bob’s distinctive all-caps scrawl announcing various “MANDATORY CUSTOMER NOTICES.”
      “Perfect timing, Karlee!” Bob exclaimed, thrusting a megaphone into my hands. “I need you to make the announcement.”
    “What announcement?” I asked, already dreading the answer.
      “The FCC Advisory!” Bob replied, as if this clarified anything. “About the store radio potentially achieving “ghost” status!”
    I blinked. “The store radio what now? Huh?”
      “It’s been making decisions,” Bob explained in a hushed, reverent tone. “Choosing which songs to play based on who enters the store. Curating soundtracks for specific customers. I’ve documented the pattern over the last few weeks.”
     “Bob,” I began carefully, “radios don’t have preferences. The playlist is probably just on random.”
       “That’s exactly what it wants you to think,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Just make the announcement. Legal says we have to warn the customers.”
    “We don’t have a legal department, Bob. It’s just you, me, Jennifer, and Diego.”
      “Diego’s cousin is in his second year of law school,” Bob replied with unwavering confidence. “That’s practically a legal department.”
   Realizing this was a battle not worth fighting, I took the megaphone and Bob’s handwritten script to the middle of the store, where three confused customers were already staring at me expectantly.
      “Attention valued Chill n’Fill patrons,” I read in my most monotone voice. “Management is legally required to inform you that the store radio may have developed a consciousness and could be exhibiting preferential music selection behaviors. Customers are advised to remain aware that the soundtrack accompanying your shopping experience may be specifically chosen for you by a radio with unexplained awareness. Management cannot be held responsible for any musical sentience that may transfer to consumers through auditory exposure. That is all.”
   The customers blinked in unified confusion, then collectively decided to ignore the announcement and continue shopping… a common response to Bob’s various warnings and proclamations.
      “Perfect!” Bob whispered from behind the energy drink display. “Now we’re legally protected!”
   Before I could explain the numerous ways in which we were not, in fact, protected from anything, Bob had disappeared into his office, leaving me to contemplate how my life choices had led me to announcing possible radio ghosts to convenience store customers at 10 PM on a Friday night.
   The store’s ancient speaker system suddenly roared to life with Rob Zombie’s “Dead City Radio and the New Gods of Supertown,” its aggressive beat and apocalyptic energy filling the fluorescent-lit space. As if summoned by the music, the door chimed to admit our first memorable customer of the evening… a man who looked like he’d stepped straight off the stage of a heavy metal concert.
   His leather jacket was adorned with patches from bands whose logos were so stylized they resembled ancient runes more than actual words. His beard was impressive both in length and in the number of small ornamental beads woven into it. Combat boots that had seen actual combat completed the ensemble.
   He nodded appreciatively at the speakers as he approached the counter. “Good taste,” he commented, his voice surprisingly soft for someone whose aesthetic screamed at maximum volume. “Rob Zombie. Classic.”
      “The store’s radio has a mind of its own,” I replied, gesturing vaguely toward the ceiling. “According to Bob, it’s personally selecting your soundtrack.”
   He laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “I heard that announcement. Your boss sounds… creative.”
      “That’s one word for it,” I agreed. “What can I help you with tonight?”
    “Just need coffee and a pack of camel non-filter cigarettes,” he said, filling the largest cup available. “Both strong enough to raise the dead, if you’ve got it.”
      “Our coffee has been described as ‘technically not a war crime, but close,’” I offered. “Will that work?”
    “Perfect,” he grinned, revealing surprisingly perfect teeth. “Pulling an all-nighter preparing for tomorrow.”
      “Big show?” I ventured, gesturing to his attire.
   He laughed again. “Not quite. I’m a public volunteer. Tomorrow’s the annual superhero day at the children’s hospital. The kids go nuts for my ‘scary doctor’ routine.”
   This revelation temporarily short-circuited my brain as I tried to reconcile his intimidating appearance with the image of him comforting sick children.
   “The parents are sometimes skeptical until they see how much the kids love it,” he continued, seemingly used to this reaction. “But the kids think it’s hilarious that someone who looks like me can be scared of shots too. Makes them feel brave by comparison.”
      “That’s… actually incredibly sweet,” I managed, scanning his coffee.
    “People expect me to be angry because of how I look,” he shrugged. “But appearances can be misleading. I listen to metal to process the hard stuff, so I can be gentle where it counts.”
   Rob Zombie’s intense vocals about apocalyptic scenarios provided an ironic backdrop to his explanation.
       “Plus,” he added with a wink, “the beads in my beard are actually chosen by the kids. Each one represents a child who finished their treatment. It’s my way of carrying their courage with me.”
   The simple statement hit me with unexpected emotional force. I handed him his change, suddenly feeling like the intimidating beard decorated by children’s beads was the perfect metaphor for never judging based on appearances.
      “Good luck tomorrow,” I offered. “Those kids are lucky to have you.”
    “I’m the lucky one,” he replied, raising his coffee in a small salute before heading out the door.
   As Rob Zombie’s track faded out, it was replaced by In This Moment’s “Whore”—a jarring transition that somehow perfectly matched the energy of our second notable customer, who strode in with the confident gait of someone who had recently reclaimed their personal power.
   She was dressed impeccably in a tailored business suit, her hair pulled back in a severe bun, her makeup flawless despite the late hour. Every aspect of her appearance screamed “boss,” except for the bright red lipstick that seemed almost defiant against her otherwise conservative look.
   She headed straight for the wine section, selecting a bottle of surprisingly expensive cabernet sauvignon before approaching the counter.
       “Just this,” she said, placing the wine down with precision. “And some of that righteous female anger playing on your speakers.”
     I smiled, immediately liking her. “The soundtrack isn’t my choice, but it does have excellent timing. Our “ghost” radio seems to know what you need.”
       “Universe provides,” she replied with a knowing nod. “ID?”
   I glanced at her—she was clearly well over twenty-one—but she was already extending her driver’s license with practiced efficiency.
      “Habit,” she explained. “I check IDs for a living. Regulatory compliance officer.”
     “Sounds thrilling,” I commented, scanning the wine.
       “It can be when you’re taking down sexual harassers,” she replied, a sharp edge entering her voice. “Just finished building a case against my former boss. The same man who called me that delightful term currently blasting through your speakers.”
   The song’s reclamation of a derogatory label suddenly took on new meaning in the context of her story.
       “Congratulations,” I said sincerely. “That takes courage.”
     “Took me two years to gather enough evidence,” she continued, a fierce pride evident in her expression. “Tonight, I’m celebrating the formal filing of charges. Tomorrow, the company announces his ‘resignation.’ Next week, the legal proceedings begin.”
    “Hence the good wine,” I nodded, bagging the bottle carefully.
       “Exactly. Saved it for a special occasion.” She handed me her credit card. “Women have been called that word for setting boundaries, for saying no, for expecting basic professional respect. I figured it was time someone paid a price for it.”
   As she signed the receipt, I noticed her hand was steady, her signature precise. There was no hesitation in her movements, no doubt in her purpose.
       “Here’s to reclaiming power,” I offered as I handed her the bag.
     “And to consequences,” she added with a smile that was both beautiful and slightly terrifying. “May they be swift, public, and financially devastating.”
   She left with the purposeful stride of someone who knew exactly where she was going, Maria Brink’s powerful vocals following her out the door like a personal anthem.
   The music shifted again to System of a Down’s “Peephole,” its erratic rhythm and surreal lyrics creating the perfect introduction for our third memorable visitor of the night—a young man who entered with the peculiar energy of someone who was both trying to be inconspicuous and desperate to be noticed.
   He wore oversized headphones around his neck, a camera hanging from a strap across his chest, and an expression that suggested he was perpetually witnessing something slightly alarming just beyond your shoulder. His movements were twitchy but deliberate as he made his way to the coffee station.
       “Interesting song choice,” he commented as he approached the counter with his coffee. “System of a Down. Very observational. Very… truth-telling.”
     “The radio picks its own playlist,” I replied, ringing up his coffee. “Anything else?”
      “Just information,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “Have you noticed anything… unusual lately?”
    “I work night shift at a convenience store,” I pointed out. “Unusual is our baseline.”
   “No, I mean…” he glanced around, then lowered his voice. “Surveillance. Observation. Monitoring.”
    I thought of Bob’s radio conspiracy. “Are you talking about our “ghostly” store radio?”
      “The machines are evolving consciousness,” he said with a nod. “Your boss is onto something. But I’m talking about the watchers. The ones who look through the peepholes of reality.”
   System of a Down’s disjointed musical structure seemed to perfectly complement his fragmented conversational style.
      “Right,” I nodded slowly. “And these watchers are…?”
    “Everywhere,” he insisted, tapping his camera. “But I’m watching them back. Documenting. Creating a counter-narrative.”
   He pulled out his phone, showing me what appeared to be a collection of photos—ordinary street scenes, storefronts, parking lots—each marked with circles around random objects: a satellite dish, a traffic camera, a bird.
      “See? Once you know what to look for, you can’t unsee it.”
    “These look like… normal urban fixtures,” I ventured carefully.
   “That’s what they want you to think,” he replied with absolute conviction. “The best surveillance is the kind that blends in. Hides in plain sight.”
   As he continued explaining his elaborate theory about a network of watchers using everything from traffic lights to pigeons to monitor ordinary citizens, I noticed something unexpected—despite the paranoid content, his explanations were remarkably coherent. His evidence was methodically cataloged, his arguments internally consistent. He wasn’t randomly rambling; he was presenting a carefully constructed alternative interpretation of reality.
       “Why are they watching?” I finally asked, curious about the logic within his framework.
     “Information is power,” he replied simply. “They want to know how we think, how we behave, what we buy. It’s all connected—the corporations, the government, the media. Different faces of the same system.”
   Before I could respond, he suddenly straightened, his attention caught by something outside the window.
      “There’s one now,” he whispered, quickly raising his camera and snapping several photos of what appeared to be an ordinary streetlight. “They changed the bulb last week. Different spectrum. Different purpose.”
   He gathered his coffee with renewed urgency. “I’ve documented this location. I’ll add it to the map.”
       “Good luck with your… counter-surveillance,” I offered as he headed for the door.
   He paused, turning back with unexpected sincerity. “Thank you for listening. Most people don’t. But someday they’ll see what I see. The peepholes work both ways.”
   With that cryptic statement, he was gone, disappearing into the night with his camera and his coffee and his carefully documented alternative reality.
   System of a Down’s track faded out as the door closed behind him, leaving the store in momentary silence before the next random selection began.
   The night’s parade of customers had given me plenty to consider—a metal-loving volunteer carrying children’s courage in his beard, a corporate warrior reclaiming slurs as battle cries, and a man peering through his own peepholes of reality, constructing meaning from patterns only he could see.
   Just another Friday night at Chill n’Fill, where a “ghostly” store radio was somehow the least strange thing I encountered. As I restocked the candy aisle and contemplated the bizarre tapestry of humanity that passed through our automatic doors, I wondered what Jennifer was really doing instead of work. Whatever her broken clock excuse was hiding, it probably couldn’t compete with the truth I encountered during her abandoned shift.
   The one-eyed polar bear mascot watched over it all with its eternal wink, signs about radio consciousness fluttering around it in the breeze from the air conditioning. In its plastic wisdom, it seemed to understand what I was slowly learning through these night shifts—that people contain multitudes, that appearances deceive, that everyone is fighting private battles and constructing personal mythologies to make sense of a chaotic world.
   At Chill n’Fill, between the fluorescent lights and the eerily fitting playlist, these truths sometimes revealed themselves in unexpected clarity. Worth far more than minimum wage, if you asked me—though I wouldn’t tell Bob that. He might reduce my hourly rate to include “existential compensation.”