TumbleDweeeb

Chill n’Fill Chronicles: The Night of the Little Car Thief, The Local Ranting Man & Officers Looking

   My Friday night shift at Chill n’Fill was officially entering the twilight zone. The one-eyed polar bear sign outside flickered rhythmically, as if winking at the parade of weirdness that was about to unfold. Bob’s “rebranding” of our humble gas station had resulted in the mascot losing an eye during installation, but Bob insisted it gave the place “character.” Character wasn’t what we needed at 11 PM on a Friday… we needed normal customers who didn’t make me question my career choices.
   I wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight, but Jennifer had called in sick with yet another creative excuse… this time claiming her pet snake had the flu. Bob had called me in a panic, and here I was, Karlee to the rescue once again, restocking the beef jerky when the door burst open to the sound of Steve Miller Band’s “Abracadabra” blasting at a volume that probably violated noise ordinances in three counties. The music emanated from a dark purple 1980 Trans Am with T-tops removed, despite the cool night air. The car had screeched into our parking lot like it was being chased by the ghost of Burt Reynolds.
   A kid who couldn’t have been older than ten… though he looked closer to eight with his round cheeks and diminutive stature… strutted in wearing a motorcycle leather jacket that hung nearly to his ankles, big framed eyeglasses that kept sliding all the way down his tiny nose, and hair gelled into what I can only describe as a tsunami frozen in time.
       “YEAAAH!” he shouted in a high-pitched voice that hadn’t even approached puberty, finger-gunning at the refrigerated drinks section. He moonwalked with what looked like a robotic breakdance… badly… toward the counter, his attempt at a Michael Jackson VS. a Run DMC combo undermined by his bright green Reebok Pumps catching and screeched across the linoleum.
     “What’s up, convenience store layyy-dee?” He could barely see over the counter, having to stand on his absolute tiptoes to peek at me. His practiced nonchalance immediately collapsed when he had to jump to prop his elbows up, knocking over our display of gum in the process. “Just need some gas for the party machine outside. And maybe some drinks & candy for the human machine right here.” He pointed at himself with both thumbs, his jacket sleeves completely covering his hands.
       “Gas pump’s outside,” I said, trying to process the fact that what appeared to be a third-grader had just driven up in a Trans Am. “And we’ve got plenty of snack options that aren’t actually food.”
   He pushed the eyeglasses up his nose, only for them to immediately slide back down. “The name’s Jimmay. Jimmay Jones.” He paused, clearly expecting a reaction. When none came, he added, “That’s Jimmay with two M’s and a Y. It’s how the cool kids spell it.”
       “I bet it is,” I replied, watching as he loaded his arms with energy drinks, a family-size bag of cheese puffs, and what appeared to be every variety of candy bar we stocked.
   As he approached the register again, the dark purple Trans Am outside with its rumbling engine—seemed to rumble louder.
       “You’re driving that car?” I asked incredulously, nodding toward the window.
     “Oh yeah,” Jimmay said casually, his voice squeaky with pride. “It’s my mom’s. I sit on three couch cushions and use this special stick I found in my garage to reach the pedals.” He pulled out a Velcro wallet with Spider-Man on it, with a chain comically too long for his tiny frame. “She’s asleep right now.”
       “Your mom doesn’t know you took her car?” I asked, skepticism dripping from every word.
    “Nope!” Jimmay admitted cheerfully. “She thinks I went to the laundromat to play the Pac-Man arcade. I play there every Friday night while she watches her boring detective shows.” He grinned, revealing a missing front tooth and the early stages of what would eventually be braces. “But tonight they had an ‘Out of Order’ sign on Pac-Man, so I decided to borrow her car and go on an adventure instead.”
   I bagged his purchases while eyeing the clock and wondering if I should call the police. My shift had another five hours to go, and now I was apparently harboring what looked like an elementary schooler engaged in grand theft auto… of his own mother’s prized Trans Am, no less.
      “Sweet one-eyed bear, by the way,” Jimmay said, nodding toward our mascot. “Very pirate-y.”
    “Bob’s midlife crisis in corporate form,” I explained mechanically, still trying to decide what the responsible adult thing to do was in this situation.
      “You should tell Bob that bears can actually regrow their eyes if they eat enough fish,” Jimmay said with complete confidence. “I seen that on National Geographic. Also, did you know sharks have to keep swimming or they die? And the moon is actually getting farther away every year. Oh, and my mom’s car can go super fast… I got it up to at least a hundred and twenty on the highway!”
   Before I could correct his stream of half-understood science facts or express horror at his claimed highway speeds, he moonwalked toward the door, crashed into the chip display, apologized to the chips, and then disappeared into the night as “Abracadabra” faded into the distance. Through the window, I watched in horror as the purple Trans Am jerked away from the pump, narrowly missing our trash can before fishtailing onto the main road.
   I grabbed my phone, ready to call the police, when the Trans Am suddenly made a U-turn and pulled back into our lot, “Abracadabra” blasting back to life as it approached. Jimmay jumped out, ran inside, and skidded to a stop at the counter, shoes squeaking and all.
      “Almost forgot,” he said breathlessly, his head barely visible above the counter, “can I have the bathroom key? All these energy drinks go right through me.”
   I wordlessly handed him the key attached to a giant wooden spoon (Bob’s anti-theft device), and he scurried to the back. Five minutes later, he returned the key and gave me a solemn nod.
      “Thanks for the hospitality,” he said in what I assume was his attempt at an adult voice, which came out as more of a squeaky cartoon imitation. “Mom’s Trans Am and I bid you goodbye. If she calls here looking for me, tell her you never saw me, but that her son is super cool and definitely tall enough to ride all the rollercoasters at Six Flags’.” He bowed dramatically, his tiny frame disappearing completely into the leather jacket for a moment, then crashed into the chip display a second time, and finally exited for good.
      The store fell into blessed silence for approximately seven minutes before Rage Against the Machine’s “Killing in the Name” began playing over our speakers. The automatic door swooshed open with such force it banged against the wall, and in stormed a man in his forties with thinning hair, a worn windbreaker that had actually seen better days, and the permanent scowl of someone who had made complaining their primary hobby.
       “ELEVEN-SEVENTY-FIVE!” he shouted before he’d even fully crossed the threshold. “Eleven dollars and seventy-five cents for a PACK OF CIGARETTES! Has the whole world gone COMPLETELY INSANE?!”
   I recognized him immediately – Chris Henson, our neighborhood’s self-appointed social media ranter, commentator and price vigilante. He came in at least twice a week to rage about something new, and cigarette prices were his personal Everest.
        “Good evening, Mr. Henson,” I said, already bracing myself.
   He slammed his wallet on the counter and pointed an accusatory finger at our cigarette display. “Has anyone else noticed how people talk about TOBACCO TAXES like they’re solving the HEALTHCARE CRISIS instead of just being a way for the government to PROFIT OFF ADDICTION?!?”
       “I don’t set the…” I began, but he was just warming up.
     “‘It’s for public health!’ they claim, about a policy that affects WORKING CLASS PEOPLE disproportionately while politicians get UNLIMITED EXPENSE ACCOUNTS for THREE-MARTINI LUNCHES!!! That’s not progressive taxation, that’s what CLASSISM looks like when it puts on a PUBLIC HEALTH COSTUME!!!”
   He paced in front of the counter, gesturing wildly as Zack de la Rocha’s vocals provided a fitting soundtrack to his tirade. Chris didn’t seem to notice or care that he was perfectly in sync with the music’s intensity.
       “The absolute WORST is watching news pundits treat tobacco taxes like some kind of MORAL VICTORY deserving SERIOUS PRAISE!!! They interview health experts who discuss the ‘social benefits’ with straight faces while conveniently forgetting that the tax structure consists mainly of REGRESSIVE POLICIES, UNFAIR TARGETING, and ENDLESS CORPORATE LOOPHOLES!!! That’s not public health genius, that’s a REVENUE GENERATION BLUEPRINT!!!”
    He paused, breathing heavily, fingers drumming on the counter. “Camel Non-Filters,” he finally said, deflating slightly. “The usual.”
   I rang him up, careful not to make any sudden movements that might restart his rant.
       “$11.75,” I confirmed, wincing as I said it.
   He handed over a ten and two single bills with the gravity of someone making a profound sacrifice. “Keep the quarter,” he muttered. “You’ll need it when THE ECONOMIC APOCALYPSE hits and we’re all bartering with LOOSE CHANGE and CANNED GOODS!”
   As he tore open the pack, he noticed our one-eyed bear mascot for what seemed like the first time, despite having seen it during each of his bi-weekly rants for the past six months.
       “What happened to his eye?” he asked, momentarily distracted from his crusade.
     “Bob poked it’s eye out,” I explained, grateful for the subject change.
       “TYPICAL!” he exclaimed, instantly re-energized. “Has anyone else noticed how people talk about WORKPLACE SAFETY like it’s just a series of REGULATORY CHECKBOXES instead of ACTUAL HUMAN PROTECTION?!? ‘We comply with all safety standards!’ they boast, while bears are LOSING EYEBALLS and workers are probably SUFFERING TRAUMA!!!”
   He continued his rant all the way to the door, pausing only to light his cigarette the moment he stepped outside, as if those extra seconds without nicotine might have been unbearable. Through the window, I could see him still gestering wildly to himself in the parking lot as he made his way to a beat-up Honda Civic plastered with bumper stickers expressing various grievances.
   I had barely recovered from the Chris Henson experience when the Rage Against the Machine track faded out, replaced by the ominous opening notes of Inner Circle’s “Bad Boys” – better known as the theme song from COPS. As if on cue, red and blue lights suddenly illuminated the parking lot, reflecting off the store windows in a dizzying pattern.
   The door opened again, this time admitting a police officer in full uniform, complete with tactical belt and the stern expression of someone who didn’t find many things amusing. She scanned the store with practiced efficiency before approaching the counter.
       “Evening,” she said, removing her sunglasses despite the late hour. “Officer Martinez. I’m looking for a kid – about eight to ten years old, leather jacket way too big for him, probably calling himself ‘Jimmay’ with, and I quote from dispatch, ‘two M’s and a Y.’”
     I felt my stomach sink. “May I ask what he’s done, officer?”
       “Stolen vehicle,” she replied, taking out a small notebook. “Dark purple 1980 Trans Am. Mother woke up to find both her car and son missing. Neighbor reported seeing her Trans Am driving erratically on Main Street – said it looked like no one was behind the wheel, just a pair of eyeglasses floating above the dashboard.”
     “That sounds… concerning,” I managed, trying to keep my expression neutral.
       “The kid’s mother is frantic,” Officer Martinez continued. “Apparently he was supposed to be at the laundromat playing Pac-Man. She said he’s pulled stunts before, but nothing like grand theft auto. Have you seen anyone matching that description tonight?”
   I hesitated, my conscience battling with the absurdity of the situation. On one hand, a child was joy-riding in a muscle car. On the other hand, turning him in would make me the convenience store clerk who ratted out an eight-year-old to the cops.
   Officer Martinez seemed to sense my internal conflict. “Look, nobody wants to get the kid in serious trouble. His mom just wants him home safe before he hurts himself or someone else. Three couch cushions and a stick aren’t exactly standard vehicle safety equipment.”
   My eyebrows shot up. “How did you know about the—”
       “This isn’t his first rodeo,” she sighed, putting away her notebook. “Last month he ‘borrowed’ his uncle’s riding lawnmower to go to come to the Chill n’Fill. Month before that, it was his neighbor’s golf cart for a McDonald’s run. Kid’s got a thing for unauthorized transportation.”
    I relented. “He was here about twenty minutes ago. Bought enough sugar and caffeine to power a small army. Said something about being ‘tall enough for rollercoasters at Six Flags’ before he left.”
   Officer Martinez nodded, already reaching for her radio. “That tracks. Six Flags is about one hundred and thirty miles from here. Doubt he’ll make it that far, but we’ll put out an alert.” She paused, noticing our bear mascot. “What happened to your polar bear?”
        “I wish people would stop asking me that.” I replied automatically.
     “Huh. Reminds me of my partner. Lost his right eyebrow in a flaming hot Cheeto incident last week. Says it gives him character.” She shook her head. “Thanks for your help. If the kid comes back, try to stall him and call us, okay? For his own safety.”
   I promised I would, and watched as she returned to her patrol car, the “Bad Boys” theme still playing over our speakers in perfect synchronicity with her departure.
   I leaned against the counter, wondering what other surprises the night had in store. The digital clock on the register blinked 1:35 AM. I still had hours to go on my shift, and somehow I doubted the night was going to get any more normal.
    I pulled out my phone and texted my roommate: “Adding ‘underage Trans Am thief,’ ‘cigarette price conspiracy theorist,’ and ‘cop looking for tiny joy-rider’ to the list of Chill n’Fill characters. This one-eyed bear is attracting all the weirdos tonight. Also, tell Jennifer her snake does NOT have the flu. Reptiles don’t get influenza.”
   I glanced up at our mascot, its single eye gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Maybe there was something to what Chris Henson had ranted about. Maybe that bear really was a symbol of workplace safety failures.
   Or maybe it was just another Friday night shift at the world’s most oddly-branded gas station, where the veil between normal and weird was as thin as the beef jerky we sold for prices that should be criminal. Either way, I was getting paid minimum wage to be the audience for it all… and collecting stories worth far more than my paycheck.