TumbleDweeeb

The Writer, The Aggravator, and The False Prophet

   It was Thursday night at Chill n’Fill, and I’d just finished rearranging the energy drink display into a color gradient that would make a rainbow jealous. Bob had insisted this would “maximize the chromatic purchasing energy” of our customers, whatever that meant. At least it gave me something to do during the slow hours of my night shift.
   Jennifer had called in sick again, this time claiming she’d been “temporarily blinded by her lashes” after an “experimental eyelash extension procedure involving industrial-strength adhesive.” This from the same coworker who last month insisted she couldn’t make her shift because she’d been “selected for an emergency deer rescue mission.” I was beginning to think Jennifer’s real talent was creative excuse generation rather than convenience store operation.
   The clock read 11:15 PM when The Killers’ “Somebody Told Me” began playing over our speakers. The door slid open to reveal a man in his thirties with disheveled hair and dark-rimmed glasses, clutching a battered laptop bag like it contained state secrets.
      “Coffee,” he said, making a beeline for the pot I’d just brewed. “The strongest you have. And maybe some of those stale donuts.”
     “Freshly defrosted this morning,” I replied with practiced retail cheer, watching as he filled our largest cup.
   He approached the counter, introducing himself as Martin Reeves. “I write comedy skits,” he explained, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. “Or at least I try to when I’m not being hounded.”
       “Deadline pressure?” I asked, ringing up his coffee.
     “Stalker pressure,” he corrected, pulling out a stack of letters bound with a rubber band. “Woman named Freddie. Been following me for three years. Analyzes everything I write. Shows up at book signings. Once broke into my apartment to reorganize my bookshelf.”
       “That sounds terrifying,” I said, genuinely concerned.
   Martin shrugged. “It’s the dark side of minor literary fame. But I’ve finally achieved the impossible—I’ve outwritten my stalker.”
      “How’s that?”
    “Volume,” he said with a manic grin. “I published fourteen horror stories last year. Two-Hundred and Thirty-two short stories. A six-hundred-page experimental work where every character was named after a different breakfast cereal. And my masterpiece—a twenty-three volume epic fantasy where the plot never actually advances.”
   He took a victorious sip of coffee. “Last week, I got this.” He handed me a note written in shaky handwriting: “I surrender. I can no longer keep up with your output. Your last series broke me. Please stop sending me your manuscripts.”
       “Most writers dream of gaining a reader for life,” Martin said, collecting his change. “I dreamed bigger… I exhausted one.”
   Martin settled into our corner booth with his laptop, occasionally muttering to himself as he typed.
     I was restocking the beef jerky when The Rolling Stones’ “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking” announced my second unusual visitor. A man in his late twenties walked in, dressed simply in jeans and a plaid work shirt, sawdust still visible on his boots. There was nothing remarkable about his appearance, yet I immediately noticed how the two customers browsing the chip aisle stiffened when he entered, exchanging glances before moving away.
   He grabbed a bottle of water and approached the counter quietly, maintaining a polite distance from the elderly man ahead of him in line. When it was his turn, he placed his water down and offered a small, tentative smile.
       “Just this, please,” he said softly.
     “That’ll be $1.89,” I replied.
   As he reached for his wallet, a woman waiting behind him audibly sighed and muttered something under her breath. The man’s shoulders tensed slightly, but he said nothing.
       “I’m Jason,” he said as he handed me exact change. “You’re new here, right? I haven’t seen you before.”
     “Started last month,” I confirmed. “Filling in for Jennifer a lot lately.”
       “Ah, Jennifer,” he nodded. “Let me guess… another creative excuse?”
     “Temporarily blinded by her lashes, apparently. Some kind of experimental extension procedure gone wrong.”
   A slight smile crossed his face. “Last time I came in, she was missing her shift because she’d been ‘recruited for a weather program.’ The time before that, something about being kidnapped by her neighbor’s overly affectionate golden retriever.”
   As we chatted, I noticed other customers giving him strange looks. Though Jason had done absolutely nothing to warrant it, they were clearly uncomfortable with his presence.
       “Does everyone in town know you?” I asked quietly.
   Jason sighed. “Unfortunately. I moved here three years ago, and for some reason, people decided they didn’t like me from day one. I’ve never figured out why.”
     “You seem perfectly normal to me,” I offered.
       “Thanks,” he said with a sad smile. “I keep to myself, do my job at the sawmill, don’t bother anyone. But there was this rumor when I first moved here—someone said I was an ex-con or something. Completely untrue, but it stuck.”
   He glanced around at the customers avoiding eye contact with him. “Everyone assumes I have this perfect, trouble-free life because I never complain about my problems. They don’t know about my dad’s cancer treatments, or my car breaking down last month, or getting passed over for promotion again.”
       “Why not set the record straight?” I asked.
     “I tried at first, but it only made things worse. Now I just live my life. Their perception is their problem, not mine.”
   He thanked me for the water and walked out, maintaining a respectful distance from other customers who nevertheless gave him a wide berth. I watched him go, thinking how strange it was that someone could become a pariah for no discernible reason.
   I was contemplating the strange social dynamics of small towns when the clock struck midnight and Imagine Dragons’ “Believer” began playing—a fitting introduction for my third visitors. The door opened to reveal two men engaged in heated debate. The first was a bearded man in his thirties wearing a tie-dyed shirt with several crystal pendants around his neck. The second wore jeans and a simple button-down shirt, looking like any other customer except for the worn Bible he carried under his arm.
       “… all I’m saying is that I can read people,” Tie-Dye Man was insisting. “It’s a gift. I can sense things others can’t.”
    “What you’re doing is making unfounded accusations based on hunches, Scott,” the other man replied calmly.
   They approached the counter together, still debating.
      “I’m Scott,” the bearded man said, “Spiritual counselor and intuitive reader. I’ve been studying Eastern meditation techniques that have opened my consciousness to higher awareness.” He tapped his forehead meaningfully.
       “I’m Michael Thomas,” the other man said with a polite nod. “Baptist pastor at First Light Baptist Church. Scott and I have an ongoing… theological discussion.”
   Scott grabbed a few herbal teas and some incense from our small wellness section while Pastor Thomas selected a coffee and muffin.
      “Scott believes he has prophetic abilities,” Pastor Thomas explained as Scott browsed the snack aisle.
     “Not exactly prophetic,” Scott called over. “I’m just more in tune with the universe’s natural frequencies. Like today at the hardware store, I could tell that Bill was hiding something.”
       “You suggested he was embezzling money because he was counting the register,” Pastor Thomas replied with remarkable patience.
     “My intuition told me that he was suspicious,” Scott insisted, returning to the counter. “And last week at the diner, I knew Marge was going through a divorce before she told anyone.”
      “She wasn’t wearing her wedding ring and looked upset,” Pastor Thomas pointed out. “That’s observation, not supernatural insight.”
   Scott arranged his items on the counter. “The pastor here refuses to acknowledge gifts that fall outside his theological framework,” he said to me. “But I sense things. Like right now…” he closed his eyes dramatically, “… I sense you’re at a crossroads in your life. Possibly considering a career change?”
      “I’m a woman working night shifts, trying to make ends meet” I replied. “Everyone in my position is considering a career change.”
     “The specifics manifest differently for everyone,” Scott explained smoothly. “But the energy patterns are clear.”
   Pastor Thomas sighed. “Scott, we’ve talked about this. Making vague statements that could apply to anyone isn’t the same as having special insight.”
       “False prophets come in many forms,” Scott announced, gesturing broadly. “Even those who claim no one can hear the universe’s whispers.”
    “Scripture is clear about testing spirits and discernment,” Pastor Thomas replied firmly. “Claims need evidence, not just feelings.”
   Their theological debate continued as I rang up Scott’s teas and incense, then Pastor Thomas’s coffee and muffin. They left together, still arguing about the difference between intuition and divine guidance, with Scott insisting that the store had “powerful energy vortexes” and Pastor Thomas explaining the dangers of spiritual pride.
   I watched them go, adding them to my mental catalog of Chill n’Fill night shift characters. Between the writer who drove his stalker to surrender through multiple releases, the man whom the town had decided to hate for no reason, and the self-proclaimed intuitive reader being patiently corrected by a Baptist pastor, it had been a typically unusual night.
   I pulled out my phone and texted my roommate: “Jennifer’s temporarily blinded by her own lashes tonight. Meanwhile, I’ve met a writer who killed his stalker with too much literature, a guy the whole town hates for literally no reason, and a new-age spiritualist arguing with a Baptist preacher. All we need now is a quantum physicist and we’ll have a full house.”
   As I hit send, I noticed a frazzled-looking woman entering with a stack of papers covered in equations. I slipped my phone back into my pocket with a sigh. It was going to be a long night.