TumbleDweeeb

Spilled Coffee, Supernatural Seekers, and Late-Night Confessions

   My Friday night shift at Chill n’Fill was off to a promising start. The one-eyed polar bear sign flickered less tonight—Bob had finally convinced the electrician to return and fix the wiring after three rescheduled appointments. The bear’s eyepatch now glowed a vibrant purple instead of its previous sickly green, which Bob insisted made it look “more pirate, less radioactive accident.”
   I wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight, but Jennifer had called in with yet another creative excuse—this time claiming she “couldn’t find her shoes,” as if she owned only a single pair. Bob had called me in a panic, and here I was, Karlee to the rescue once again, restocking the coffee station when Fleetwood Mac’s “The Chain” began playing over the store speakers, its distinctive bass line setting an ominous mood for what was about to unfold.
   The bell above the door chimed as a woman in her forties rushed in, clutching a stack of papers to her chest. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, and her clothing looked like it had seen better days—specifically, days that didn’t involve whatever catastrophe was currently making her eye twitch.
       “Coffee,” she announced to no one in particular, making a beeline for where I stood. “The strongest you have. I don’t care if it was made yesterday.”
   I gestured to the fresh pot I’d just brewed. “Made ten minutes ago. Dark roast.”
   She nodded with the solemnity of someone accepting life-saving medication and grabbed the largest cup available. As Stevie Nicks sang about never breaking the chain, the woman’s hands shook while attempting to secure the lid. The inevitable happened—the lid popped off, sending scalding coffee cascading over her papers, the counter, and somehow, impressively, her shoes.
       “No, no, NO!” she wailed, frantically trying to separate the now-soaked pages. “These are the quarterly projections! The meeting is in thirty minutes!”
   I rushed over with a roll of paper towels. “I’m so sorry! Let me help.”
      “Unless you can recreate an entire financial forecast from coffee stains, there’s not much you can do,” she snapped, then immediately closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. It’s just—this presentation determines whether I get the promotion I’ve been working toward for three years.”
   I continued mopping up coffee while she salvaged what she could of her documents. “Maybe you can blame it on your boss? Say they spilled coffee on your only copy?”
   A small smile cracked through her panic. “Tempting, but Richard would see right through that. He’d probably just tell me I should have had backups. Digital and physical.”
       “Richard sounds like a delight,” I remarked, which earned a genuine laugh.
     “You have no idea.” She glanced at my name tag. “Karlee? What’s with the pirate polar bear?”
       “Bob’s midlife crisis manifested as a rebranding effort,” I explained. “The bear lost an eye during installation. Bob claims it adds character.”
    “At least someone’s having a worse day than me,” she muttered. “Is there a bathroom where I can try to clean up?”
   I pointed her toward the back, and she disappeared with her coffee-stained projections and what remained of her dignity. When she emerged ten minutes later, her papers were hanging over the hand dryer, and she had a new, carefully lidded coffee.
      “I’ve made an executive decision,” she announced. “I’m going to wing it. Ten years in finance has to count for something, right?” She tapped her temple. “It’s all up here anyway.”
    “That’s the spirit,” I encouraged. “The coffee’s on me.”
       “You’re a lifesaver. Wish me luck with Richard.” She adjusted her slightly damp blazer as Fleetwood Mac faded out.
     “Knock ’em dead,” I called after her. “Just don’t spill any more coffee—could be considered assault in some states!”
   As the door closed behind her, the store’s speakers transitioned to Blue Öyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper,” its eerie melody a perfect introduction for my next customer. The bell chimed again and in walked a teenager with dyed black hair, heavy eyeliner, and a t-shirt featuring what appeared to be an ancient occult symbol. He carried a bulky duffel bag that clinked suspiciously as he moved directly to the snack aisle.
   I watched as he loaded up on an odd combination: salt (four containers), red candles from our limited party supply section, energy drinks, and a concerning amount of beef jerky. When he approached the counter, he was also clutching our store’s cheapest flashlight and all three disposable cameras we had in stock.
       “Big night planned?” I asked casually as I scanned his items.
   He leaned in, lowering his voice despite being the only customer in the store. “We’re investigating the abandoned train station tonight. People have reported seeing apparitions in the windows and hearing machinery running even though it’s been closed for forty-eight years.”
       “Sounds… safe,” I replied, trying to keep my expression neutral.
     “Safety is for people who don’t want to commune with the other side,” he said with complete seriousness. “The veil is thin tonight. Perfect conditions.”
       “Hence the salt?” I guessed.
     “Protection circle,” he confirmed, nodding appreciatively at my apparent understanding. “The cameras are for evidence documentation—digital equipment always malfunctions around spectral energy.”
   As Blue Öyster Cult played on about seasons not fearing the reaper, I couldn’t help but feel the boy should perhaps fear something… tetanus, falling through rotted floorboards, or angry security guards, for starters.
       “The jerky and energy drinks?” I asked, scanning the eight packages of beef jerky.
     “Stakeouts require provisions,” he explained as if this were obvious. “And you need to stay alert when the dead are trying to communicate.”
   I nodded sagely while bagging his ghost-hunting supplies. “That’ll be $63.47.”
    He handed over a crumpled wad of cash. “By the way, what’s with the cyclops polar bear mascot? Is it supposed to be some kind of frost spirit guardian?”
      “Just Bob’s attempt at rebranding,” I said. “Though I suppose ‘frost spirit guardian’ sounds more impressive than ‘sign installation accident.’”
     “Accidents are often the universe’s way of revealing hidden truths,” he said, gathering his bags. “That bear lost its eye because it’s meant to see beyond the normal into the spirit realm.” He glanced at the name tag again. “Karlee… Chill n’Fill… a metaphor for how spirits chill the air as they fill our dimension with their presence.”
       “I’m pretty sure Bob was just going for a gas station pun, but I like your interpretation better.”
   As he left, weighed down by ghost-hunting supplies and metaphysical certainty, I wondered briefly if I should have tried harder to discourage breaking into abandoned buildings. But teenagers and questionable decision-making have been inseparable since the dawn of time, and at least he was prepared with flashlights and snacks.
   The clock read 11:30 PM as the music shifted to Ray Charles’ “Georgia On My Mind,” its soulful piano creating a mellow, introspective atmosphere for the graveyard shift’s quietest hours. The bell above the door rang softly as an elderly man entered, moving slowly with the aid of a polished wooden cane. He wore a neatly pressed button-up shirt tucked into well-worn jeans, and a weathered Detroit Tigers baseball cap that had clearly seen decades of use.
   He nodded politely as he passed the counter, making his way to the coffee station where he methodically prepared a small cup. After paying, he settled onto the single bench by the window—a spot usually occupied by teenagers killing time or the occasional exhausted delivery driver.
   For nearly thirty minutes, he sat in silence, occasionally sipping his coffee and watching the empty parking lot as Ray Charles’ soulful voice filled the quiet store. I busied myself with inventory, giving occasional glances his way, wondering if he was waiting for someone or simply avoiding going home.
   Just as I was considering whether to check if he needed anything, he approached the counter again.
      “Could I trouble you for another cup?” he asked, his voice gravelly but gentle.
     “Of course,” I replied, waving away his attempt to pay. “This one’s on the house.”
   He accepted with a grateful nod. “Kind of you.” His gaze landed on my name tag, and a smile tugged at his lips. “Karlee. That poor bear has seen some things, hasn’t he?”
      “More than he bargained for during the installation,” I confirmed. “Bob’s very proud of the rebrand, eyepatch and all.”
    “Reminds me of my wife. She lost a lot back in them days, when we first met. Never slowed her down a bit… said it just gave her a more focused view of the world.” He chuckled softly at the memory.
   Something in his tone made me think this wasn’t just casual conversation. I leaned against the counter. “Waiting for someone tonight?”
   He shook his head. “Just putting off going home to an empty house. Today would have been her birthday. So many years together…” He tapped his wedding band. “So many birthday’s without her.”
   Ray Charles continued to croon about Georgia as if on cue, and the man smiled sadly. “This was one of our songs.
      “I’m sorry for your loss,” I offered, knowing the words were inadequate.
    “Those good years are nothing to be sorry about,” he replied. “Just finding my way through the quiet parts now.” He gestured to the nearly empty store. “Sometimes it helps to be somewhere with a bit of life, even at this hour. Hope you don’t mind.”
       “Stay as long as you like,” I assured him. “Coffee’s fresh until midnight.”
   He returned to his bench by the window, humming quietly along with Ray Charles. When the song ended and the radio moved on to something upbeat, he finished his coffee, gave me a small wave, and headed toward the door.
       “Your bear there,” he said, pausing by the exit, “She would have loved him. Said imperfections gave character. Goodnight, and thank you for the company.”
   As the door closed behind him, I found myself hoping he’d return during another quiet night shift. The store felt emptier somehow after he left, despite having been nearly vacant before.
   I straightened the coffee station and glanced up at the clock. Still four hours to go on my shift at the awkwardly rebranded convenience store with its one-eyed mascot watching over everything—from coffee catastrophes and teenage ghost hunters to quiet moments of remembrance—while Fleetwood Mac, Blue Öyster Cult, and Ray Charles provided the soundtrack to another night of small human moments unfolding beneath the flickering “CHILL n’FILL” sign.
   I made a mental note to ask Jennifer exactly how many pairs of shoes she owned that she couldn’t find a single wearable set, but then again, her excuses were becoming increasingly creative. Perhaps I should start a collection of them—they might make a decent short story someday. For now, though, I was just another night shift worker at Chill n’Fill, filling in for someone else’s life while putting my own on hold, one customer at a time.