TumbleDweeeb

Another Night at Chill n’Fill: Signs, Romance, and the Color Blue

   It was Friday night at Chill n’Fill, and I’d just finished arranging the energy drinks into an elaborate pyramid that Bob insisted would “enhance their caffeinated aura.” The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, occasionally flickering in a way that made me wonder if our electrical system was having a seizure. Jennifer had called in sick again, this time claiming she’d been “temporarily incapacitated by an allergic reaction to her new eyelash extensions.” This meant another double shift for me, Karlee, professional replacement and certified master of retail patience.
   As Bone Thugs-N-Harmony’s “Thuggish Ruggish Bone” played through our ancient sound system, the night had been relatively quiet… a few truckers grabbing coffee, some teenagers loitering by the slushie machine, and the usual collection of night shift workers stocking up on sugar and caffeine for their long hours ahead. The calm before the storm, as it turned out.
   Around 10:30 PM, our automatic doors slid open to reveal what I can only describe as a walking fashion catastrophe. A skinny white kid, maybe nineteen, wearing an oversized white t-shirt that hung to his knees, jeans so baggy they defied the laws of physics, and a sideways baseball cap with the sticker still attached. He strutted… or rather, shuffled while trying not to trip over his own pants, to the counter with the confidence of someone who definitely practiced their “tough guy” walk in the mirror.
   Before I could even say “Welcome to Chill n’Fill,” he launched into what appeared to be an interpretive dance routine. His hands moved in complicated patterns, fingers contorting into shapes that suggested either severe arthritis or what he thought were gang signs. Each gesture was accompanied by a head nod and occasional verbal “yo” or “check it” for emphasis.
   This performance continued for what felt like several minutes. First came the chest thumping, then the elaborate hand gestures, followed by more finger configurations than an advanced piano recital, all while maintaining what he clearly believed was an intimidating stare.
   I waited patiently, leaning against the counter, occasionally glancing at my watch. When he finally finished his routine and stood there expectantly, I smiled sweetly.
      “That was impressive,” I said. “But just so you know, in the time it took you to show me all those signs, I could have shot you seventeen times, reloaded, and shot you five more times before you finished that last… whatever that was with your pinky finger.”
   His face went from tough-guy swagger to deer-in-headlights in approximately 0.2 seconds.
      “Whoa, why you gotta be so aggressive?” he sputtered, his voice jumping an octave higher than his previous attempt at a baritone.
    “I’m not the one who came in here doing the full choreography from a bad music video,” I replied. “Can I help you with something, or are you just here to audition for America’s Got Questionable Hand Gestures?”
   He straightened his posture and cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. Just need some, uh, Cheetos and a Mountain Dew.”
      “Shocking choice, I thought you were going to ask for a pack of Newports and a 40 ounce of O.E.” I muttered, ringing him up. “That’ll be $5.49.”
   As he dug through his enormous pants pockets for money, I couldn’t resist asking, “Just out of curiosity, do you actually know what any of those signs mean?”
      “Yeah, totally,” he said, not meeting my eyes. “It’s, like, street language. You wouldn’t understand.”
     “I grew up three blocks from here,” I replied. “The only street language I need is ‘pothole ahead’ and ‘the McDonalds ice cream machine is broken again.’”
   He hurriedly grabbed his purchases and shuffled toward the door, muttering something about “disrespect” before making one final half-hearted hand gesture that I’m pretty sure he saw in a PG-13 movie.
  I was still chuckling to myself when the door opened again about twenty minutes later as our sound system switched to Boyz II Men’s “I’ll Make Love to You.” This time, the customer who entered actually looked like he might know a thing or two about street life. Tall, muscular, covered in tattoos, with a scar running along his jawline and eyes that had seen things most people only experience in nightmares. He wore a simple white t-shirt, jeans that actually fit, and carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone.
   He nodded at me once… a slight, efficient movement that acknowledged my existence without wasting energy and headed straight for the greeting card section. Yes, Chill n’Fill had a greeting card section, one of Bob’s many attempts to make us a “one-stop life shop,” whatever that meant.
   I watched with growing curiosity as this intimidating figure spent an inordinate amount of time carefully examining our selection of cards. He picked up one, read it, put it back. Then another. And another. His brow furrowed in concentration, occasionally shaking his head in disapproval.
   After about ten minutes of this, he approached the counter with two different cards in hand.
      “Need an opinion,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly. “Anniversary. Five years. Which one better?”
   He laid both cards on the counter. The first was covered in hearts and flowers with a poem about eternal love. The second featured a cartoon cat saying “You’re Purr-fect For Me” with a pun-filled message inside.
       “Um, depends on the recipient,” I offered, somewhat surprised by this turn of events. “The first one is more traditional romantic, the second more playful.”
   He considered this information carefully. “She likes cats. But also likes when I’m romantic.” He stared at the cards like they contained classified military information. “Need it to be special. Five years is important.”
      “Well, why not get both?” I suggested. “Give her the funny one first, then the romantic one. Best of both worlds.”
   His eyes widened slightly, as if I’d just revealed the secrets of the universe. “Smart. Very smart.” He nodded appreciatively. “Would work well with the dinner I’m cooking. Making her favorite—chicken parmesan from scratch. Got the good wine too.”
      “Sounds like you’ve got it all planned out,” I said, ringing up both cards.
   As he paid, I couldn’t help adding, “Five years is impressive. Congratulations.”
   A smile transformed his face, softening the hard edges and making the scar almost disappear. “Thanks. She saved my life, for real. Was heading down bad road before meeting her. Now I got steady job, taking night classes in business management. Planning to propose next year.”
       “That’s really great,” I said, genuinely touched.
   He carefully placed the cards in his pocket, then pulled out a small velvet pouch. “Been saving for the ring. Wanna see?”
   When I nodded, he opened the pouch to reveal a modest but beautiful diamond ring. “Not the biggest, but it’s clean. No blood diamonds. Researched ethical sourcing.”
      “It’s perfect,” I assured him. “She’ll love it.”
   He returned the ring to his pocket with the gentle care of someone handling a tiny bird. “Thanks for help with cards. Appreciate it.”
      “Any time. Good luck with the proposal—though it sounds like you don’t need luck.”
   He smiled again, that unexpected transformation lighting up his face. “Still nervous, though. Rehearsing what to say every day.”
   With a parting nod, he left, leaving me to ponder how appearances rarely tell the full story.
   The night grew quieter as it approached 1 AM. As Digital Underground’s “The Humpty Dance” started playing, I was doing inventory on the cigarette shelf when our door slid open again, bringing in a gust of cool air and our third memorable customer of the evening.
   This one was a walking explosion of color. Neon green sneakers, purple pants so bright they practically glowed, a yellow and red striped shirt, and a cap covered in so many different hues it looked like a rainbow had been liquidated and poured over his head. The only exception to this color riot was that nothing, absolutely nothing, on his person was blue.
      “Yo, yo, yo!” he announced, arms spread wide as if expecting applause. “The Magnificent DJ Color-Wheel has arrived! What’s good, convenience store person?”
        “Nothing much, DJ Color-Wheel,” I replied, already exhausted by his energy level. “What can I help you with?”
     He Humpty Danced—actually Humpty Danced—to the counter. “Need some munchies and a beverage, but check it—gotta make sure there’s no blue. Like, zero blue. Not even a hint of blue. Blue is against my spiritual principles, you feel me?”
      “I… feel you?” I said uncertainly. “So no blue packaging or no blue food?”
    “Both! Neither! All of the above!” he exclaimed, spinning in a circle. “Blue is the enemy color! It’s in my scriptures, chapter four, verse twenty: ‘Thou shalt not consume the azure, nor shall thy eyes rest upon its deceptive hue.’”
      “Your… scriptures?”
    “The Holy Book of Chromatic Enlightenment,” he said with complete seriousness. “I follow the Church of Spectral Selection. We believe colors influence your soul vibrations. Blue dampens creativity and promotes conformity—it’s the color of oppression!”
       “Interesting theological position,” I said, trying to keep a straight face. “So you need snacks with no blue on the packaging?”
    “Exactly! You’re picking up what I’m putting down!” He finger-gunned at me with both hands. “Also, the store’s looking a little heavy on the blue aura. Might want to consider some orange accent lighting. Really opens up the spiritual channels.”
   I watched as he methodically went through the store, carefully examining every package for traces of blue. He rejected several chips because of blue accents on the bag, passed on certain candies due to blue logo elements, and nearly had a meltdown when he realized most of our refrigerated section had blue temperature indicators.
    Finally, he returned with an assortment of red, green, and yellow packaged items. “This is the good stuff! Pure chromatic positivity!”
   As I rang him up, he peered at our schedule posted behind the counter. “Whoa, hold up! This schedule is printed on blue paper! How can you work with this negative energy bombarding you all day?”
       “I offset it by occasionally screaming into the void of our walk-in freezer,” I replied dryly.
     “Smart, smart. Vocal release therapy. I respect that.” He nodded sagely. “You know, if you ever want to learn more about the dangers of blue and the power of yellow, I host enlightenment sessions every Thursday at my mom’s garage. First session’s free.”
    “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, handing him his change. “Though I should warn you, our uniforms are changing next month. To blue.”
   His eyes widened in horror. “No! You must resist! I’ll bring you some protective amber crystals. They create a force field against blue energy infiltration.”
       “That’s… very thoughtful.”
   He gathered his carefully curated non-blue purchases and headed for the door, calling over his shoulder, “Stay colorful, convenience store warrior! Fight the blue power!”
   And just like that, he was gone, leaving behind only the faint scent of incense and a profound sense of confusion.
   I pulled out my phone and texted my roommate: “Jennifer’s eyelash extensions have incapacitated her again. Meanwhile, I’ve educated a wannabe gangster on efficient time management during gunfights, helped a legitimate tough guy choose anniversary cards, and learned about a new religion that considers Smurfs to be demonic entities. Just another night at Chill n’Fill. Coming home to sleep for days.”
   The night settled back into its familiar rhythm of quiet and occasional customer. As I started my closing routine, I couldn’t help smiling at the strange parade of humanity that passed through our doors after dark. There was something almost beautiful about it—this random sampling of people, each carrying their own stories, beliefs, and peculiarities into our fluorescent-lit microcosm before disappearing back into the night.
   And somewhere in the city, a tough guy was rehearsing his proposal speech, a color-avoiding DJ was planning his next sermon on the evils of blue, and a gangster was probably practicing hand gestures in front of his bathroom mirror.
   Just another night at Chill n’Fill, where every customer was a story waiting to unfold, and every shift was an unpredictable journey through the strange and wonderful landscape of human eccentricity.