TumbleDweeeb

The Night of the Silent Breakdown, the Snack Commander, and the Law-Defying Fisherman
 

  It was Wednesday night at Chill n’Fill, and I was halfway through my shift when the fluorescent lights flickered in that particular way that always gave me a migraine by midnight. Jennifer had called in “sick” again, this time claiming she’d been “temporarily incapacitated by a rogue cucumber facial mask that had sealed her eyes shut.” This meant another double shift for me, Karlee, the perpetual replacement.
   Bob had outdone himself this week by dressing our one-eyed polar bear mascot in a full Detroit Tigers baseball uniform, complete with cap and miniature bat. This despite being in rural Alabama, where college football reigned supreme and most customers responded with confusion or outright hostility to the display. When I’d questioned this peculiar choice, Bob had enthusiastically explained that he’d gotten the uniform “at an incredible discount” from his cousin in Michigan. The fact that no one in our town cared about Detroit baseball was, apparently, irrelevant to his decorating decisions.
   The first few hours of my shift had been relatively uneventful..  a steady stream of regulars buying their usual cigarettes and lottery tickets, a group of teenagers spending twenty minutes deciding which energy drinks would provide the optimal caffeine-to-sugar ratio for their all-night gaming session, and the typical collection of commuters grabbing coffee to fuel their late drives home. Nothing out of the ordinary for Chill n’Fill, the gas station where normality came to die.
   As the store’s radio mysteriously switched to Amy Winehouse’s “Rehab,” the first unusual customer arrived around 7:30 PM. She stumbled through the door in a cloud of perfume that smelled like a mixture of cotton candy and regret. Mid-twenties, wearing a miniskirt that could have doubled as a headband and a crop top that seemed to be fighting a losing battle against physics. Her makeup had clearly been applied with enthusiasm rather than precision, giving her a slightly lopsided appearance.
       “Bathroom?” she slurred, swaying slightly as she clutched her oversized purse.
     I pointed toward the back. “Past the dairy coolers, on the left.”
   She nodded, attempted to walk a straight line, and disappeared into the bathroom. I made a mental note to check on her if she didn’t emerge in a reasonable amount of time, then went back to restocking the beef jerky display.
   The night quickly became busy with a rush of post-baseball practice kids and their irritated parents, followed by the after-church crowd from Wednesday night service. The line at the register grew longer, and the demands more specific. Mrs. Hendricks wanted her cigarettes from “the fresh carton in the back, not the one that’s been sitting out.” Mr. Pearson insisted I microwave his burrito for exactly 47 seconds, “not a second more or less.” A group of construction workers debated the merits of various protein bars while blocking access to the coffee station.
   During this chaos, I completely forgot about the woman in the bathroom. She had become just another peculiarity in the background of my shift, like the flickering lights in aisle three that Bob kept promising to fix, or the mysterious puddle by the ice cream freezer that reappeared no matter how many times I mopped it up.
   Around 10:45 PM, things finally slowed down. I had just finished reorganizing the candy display that a toddler had systematically dismantled when I realized I hadn’t seen bathroom woman emerge. I considered checking on her, but then an elderly customer needed help finding the right type of antacid, and the thought slipped away again.
   The automatic doors slid open around 11:30 PM as the radio suddenly switched to Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust,” pulling my attention to two men entering—one tall and thin with the imperious air of someone used to giving orders, the other shorter and stockier with the resigned expression of someone used to following them.
   The tall one marched directly to the candy aisle with his companion trailing behind. He began gesturing wildly at the shelves.
       “Get that one, that one, that one, and that one,” he commanded, sweeping his hand across an entire section containing at least fifty different types of candy bars.
     His companion stared blankly at the wall of chocolate. “Which ones, exactly?”
       The tall man sighed with the dramatic flair of a Shakespearean actor. “Are you serious right now? I pointed right at them! That one, that one, that one, and that one!” He jabbed his finger vaguely in the direction of several different sections.
       “There are like fifty different candy bars where you’re pointing, Derek,” the shorter man said, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Could you be more specific?”
     “Oh my God,” Derek groaned, rolling his eyes so hard I worried they might get stuck. “Do I have to do everything myself? The Snickers, the Kit Kat, the—you know what? Just move.”
   He shoved past his friend and began grabbing candy bars seemingly at random, muttering under his breath about “incompetence” and “simple instructions.”
   I watched this exchange with the detached fascination of someone observing exotic animals at a zoo. The dynamic between the two men was clearly well-established—Derek, the self-important leader who believed his directions were crystal clear, and his friend, the long-suffering follower who had learned that arguing was futile but couldn’t quite suppress his frustration.
   When they approached the counter, Derek slammed down seven completely different candy bars as Freddie Mercury sang about another one biting the dust – perfectly timed to match the friend’s defeated expression.
       “This was not that complicated,” he said loudly to his companion, apparently wanting to make sure I was aware of this grave injustice.
     “You pointed at the entire shelf,” his friend replied flatly.
        “I was clearly indicating the Snickers, the Twix, the Milky Way—”
     “You said four candy bars and you grabbed seven.”
   Derek’s eyes narrowed. “Are you candy-counting me right now? Is that what’s happening?”
   I rang up their purchase as quickly as possible, trying to become invisible as their bickering intensified. Derek paused his argument only to comment on our bear mascot.
      “Why’s that bear wearing a Detroit uniform? In Alabama?” he asked, momentarily united with his friend in confusion.
    “Our manager got it cheap from his cousin,” I explained with the practiced weariness of someone who had answered this question fifty times that day.
   Derek’s friend examined the bear more closely, then smirked. “Should’ve put an Auburn jersey on it instead,” he said. “War Eagle.”
     Derek looked horrified. “Are you serious right now? In this part of Alabama? It’s Roll Tide or nothing.”
       “Been an Auburn fan my whole life,” his friend replied with a defiant shrug. “War Eagle.”
   And just like that, their candy dispute was forgotten as they launched into a heated college football debate that had probably been raging since childhood. They were still arguing as they left, their voices carrying through the parking lot long after the doors closed behind them.
   The temporary excitement of the candy bar drama faded, and the store fell back into late-night quietude. I used the lull to restock the coffee station and wipe down the slushy machines. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting their sickly glow over the linoleum floor that had seen better days sometime in the early 1990s.
   The clock had just struck midnight when the radio switched again, this time to AC/DC’s “Back in Black” as the next customer entered—a large man with a beard that could have housed several small birds. He nodded at me, then made a beeline for the beer cooler. I watched with growing concern as he began stacking cases of beer in his cart—five, ten, fifteen, twenty cases of our cheapest beer.
   He was methodical about it, carefully selecting each case, checking the expiration dates, and stacking them with the precision of someone building a pyramid. His forearms, covered in faded tattoos, flexed as he lifted the heavy cases. There was something impressive about his dedication to the task, as if buying an excessive amount of cheap beer was a sacred mission.
   He wheeled the overloaded cart to the counter with the confidence of someone who hadn’t just violated state liquor laws.
       “Evening,” he said cheerfully. “Just stocking up.”
     “I’m sorry, sir,” I said, reciting the line I’d memorized during training, “but Alabama law prohibits me from selling more than five cases to an individual customer in a 24-hour period.”
   The man’s smile didn’t waver. “Aw, come on. I’ve got a big fishing trip this weekend. Twenty guys heading up to Smith Lake.”
       “I understand, but I can’t sell you more than five cases. It’s the law.”
   He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Look, nobody’s gonna know. I’ll make it worth your while.” He pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and tried to slide it across the counter.
       “Sir, I could lose my job and face legal penalties. The store could lose its license to sell alcohol.”
   His friendly demeanor cracked slightly. “This is ridiculous. It’s just beer.”
       “I can sell you five cases now, and you could come back tomorrow for more,” I suggested. “Or bring some friends in to make separate purchases.”
   He considered this for a moment, stroking his beard thoughtfully. I could almost see the calculations happening behind his eyes—the inconvenience of making multiple trips versus the possibility of having his fishing trip ruined by insufficient alcohol. Finally, he nodded.
       “Alright, fair enough. Just give me the five cases then.”
    As I rang up his transaction, he noticed our baseball-clad bear mascot and frowned. “Detroit? In Alabama? That’s just asking for trouble.”
       “Manager’s special project,” I explained with a shrug. “Got the uniform cheap.”
     “War Eagle,” he said, echoing the earlier customer, though with less combative energy and more reflexive habit.
   I helped him load the five cases into his cart, and he left with a plan to return with friends for the remaining beer. The evening settled into a quieter rhythm after that, with only the occasional customer stopping in for late-night essentials.
   The hours between midnight and dawn always had a strange quality at Chill n’Fill. Time seemed to stretch and contract unpredictably. Sometimes an hour passed in what felt like minutes; other times, a single minute dragged on for what seemed like days. The fluorescent lights buzzed, the refrigerators hummed, and outside, the occasional car whooshed past on the highway, its headlights briefly illuminating the store before disappearing back into the darkness.
   I busied myself with the mundane tasks that filled the overnight shift—restocking shelves, cleaning the coffee station, checking expiration dates on the dairy products, and wiping down the counters. The radio played softly in the background, a mix of classic rock and 90s hits that Bob insisted was “the perfect soundtrack for late-night shopping experiences.”
   At 5:30 AM, as Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb” began playing softly over the speakers, I was starting my end-of-shift cleaning routine when a horrifying realization hit me like a slap to the face: the bathroom woman. She had gone in around 7:30 PM, and I had completely forgotten about her. That was ten hours ago.
   My heart rate spiked as panic set in. What if she had overdosed? What if she was unconscious, or worse? What if she’d been dead for hours while I’d been calmly restocking shelves and dealing with candy bar dramatics?
       I rushed to the bathroom door and knocked tentatively. “Hello? Are you still in there?”
   No response.
     I knocked again, louder this time. “Ma’am? Are you okay?”
   Silence.
     Panic rising, I used my master key to unlock the door, terrified of what I might find. Had she overdosed? Passed out? Was I about to discover a body on my minimum wage shift?
   The door swung open to reveal… nothing. The bathroom was empty, though evidence of a prolonged stay was clear—empty water bottles from our cooler, a makeup bag with contents scattered across the sink, and several candy wrappers. At some point during my hectic night, she had slipped out unnoticed.
   Relief washed over me, quickly followed by embarrassment. How had I forgotten about her for so long? And how had she managed to leave without me noticing?
   As I cleaned up the bathroom debris, I found a note scrawled on a paper towel with eyeliner:
       “Thanks for the sanctuary. Lost my job, boyfriend, and apartment all in one day. Needed somewhere to have a breakdown. Bought some snacks and left money on counter when you were busy. Your bear’s uniform is ridiculous. Roll Tide.”
   I checked the register and, sure enough, there was an extra twenty tucked under the edge—far more than the few snacks she’d taken would have cost.
   I finished my shift as the final notes of Pink Floyd faded away. As I clocked out, I pulled out my phone to text my roommate:
       “Jennifer’s eyes are glued shut with cucumber mask tonight. Meanwhile, I completely forgot about a woman having a breakdown in our bathroom for hours, dealt with a man who can’t specify which candy bars he wants, and narrowly avoided a felony beer sale. Oh, and everyone hates Bob’s Detroit Tigers bear. Just another night at Chill n’Fill. Coming home to sleep for days.”
    As the morning shift worker arrived, I handed over the register and pointed at our baseball-uniformed bear.
       “Fair warning—every customer will comment on that thing.”
     “Already got an earful from my first customer,” she replied with a sigh. “Roll Tide, right?”
       “Apparently,” I agreed, stepping into the morning sunshine with the strange feeling that despite everything, I’d somehow made a difference to a woman who’d needed a safe place to fall apart. Even if I’d forgotten she was there.
   Walking to my car, I wondered about bathroom lady and where she was now. I hoped she’d found a place to stay, or at least somewhere better than the Chill n’Fill bathroom to sort through her troubles. In the strange ecosystem of night shift retail, these fleeting connections with strangers often felt more meaningful than they probably were. Maybe it was the late hours, or the liminal quality of a gas station at night—a place that existed somewhere between destination and journey, public and private, reality and dream.
    I started my car and headed home, leaving behind the one-eyed Detroit Tigers bear and the fluorescent lights of Chill n’Fill until tomorrow night, when Jennifer would inevitably call in with another creative excuse, and I would once again become keeper of the night shift and all the strange characters it attracted.