TumbleDweeeb

Another Night at Chill n’Fill: The Baby Lotion Theorists

   It was Friday night at Chill n’Fill, and I was nearing the end of what Bob optimistically called my “probationary period” but what I recognized as “we can’t find anyone else willing to work these hours for minimum wage plus the occasional expired energy drink.” The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with their familiar electronic hum, occasionally flickering just enough to induce a mild headache by hour three of my shift. One light in particular, directly above the candy aisle, had developed a rhythmic pulsing that gave the chocolate bars an unsettling strobe-lit quality, as if they were hosting their own tiny disco party when no one was looking.
   Our one-eyed polar bear mascot had received Bob’s latest artistic treatment – he had transformed it into what he called “Horror Movie Bear,” though it was clearly just Jason Voorhees, complete with a hockey mask made from a cut-up milk jug and a wooden machete that Bob had whittled himself from a broken broom handle. The bear had lost its right eye just a few weeks ago in what everyone referred to as “the installation incident,” a catastrophic attempt to mount the bear above the entrance, directly over the faded Marty’s Quikmart sign that was still partially visible beneath our neon Chill n’Fill logo. Bob’s insistence that the bear could be installed without professional help had resulted in a dramatic crash, a shower of plaster, and one fewer eye in our ursine mascot’s already unsettling face. Bob, ever the optimist, insisted the bear now had “character” and started calling it “the winking one-eyed polar bear,” though there was no actual wink—just an empty socket where the plastic eye used to be. Around its neck hung the usual small chalkboard, today reading: “SLASH YOUR HUNGER WITH OUR KILLER DEALS!” – a slogan Bob had workshopped for three days before settling on, rejecting alternatives like “CH-CH-CH SNACK-SNACK-SNACK” and “YOUR WALLET WON’T BE THE ONLY THING THAT’S MURDERED!”
   The bear’s eye loss had actually preceded Jennifer’s mysterious streak of absences, leading some of the regular customers to joke about a “Chill n’Fill curse.” First the bear lost an eye, then Jennifer started disappearing with increasingly implausible excuses. Who knew what would be next? Bob took the superstition seriously enough that he’d started burning sage near the bear every morning before opening, a ritual that did nothing except make the store smell vaguely of Thanksgiving and confuse customers looking for the source of the herbal aroma.
   The bear stood sentinel by the entrance, greeting customers with its asymmetrical gaze and poorly constructed masked face. Most regulars had grown accustomed to Bob’s weekly bear transformations, but occasional new customers or passing travelers would do a double-take, sometimes backing slowly toward the exit before curiosity or desperate need for caffeine overcame their initial alarm.
   Jennifer had called in again with what I could only describe as a mumbled excuse. The phone connection had been terrible, and all I could make out was something about “trapped” and “situation” and what might have been “flamingos” but could just as easily have been “flamenco.” This marked her seventh mysterious absence in three weeks, each excuse more cryptic and implausible than the last. There was the “emergency hedgehog situation” that apparently required her immediate attention in the middle of her Tuesday shift. Then came the “unexpected bagpipe lesson” that she “couldn’t possibly reschedule.” Last week it had been something about being “recruited for a flash mob at her grandmother’s retirement community,” followed by needing to “alphabetize her spice rack before Mercury went retrograde.”
   Bob had grown increasingly frustrated with her absences, muttering something about “reliability” and “commitment to the Chill n’Fill family” before asking if I’d be interested in taking on full-time hours. Jennifer’s mysterious misfortunes were apparently my employment opportunity, a disturbing karmic balance where her chaos translated directly into my increased exposure to the night shift’s particular brand of weirdness.
   The night had been relatively quiet—a few truckers stopping for coffee, some teenagers buying slushies and giggling at Horror Movie Bear, and one confused elderly man who thought our gas station was his son’s house and tried to use his house key on the beef jerky display. I had gently redirected him to the phone where he called his actual son to pick him up. Just the usual Friday night crowd in our corner of Alabama, where the highway met the backroads and created this liminal retail space that seemed to exist slightly outside normal reality, especially after dark.
   I’d spent the first part of my shift rearranging the refrigerated drink section according to Bob’s latest merchandising theory—”color psychology purchasing influence,” which meant organizing everything by label color rather than brand or type of beverage. This resulted in a visually striking but practically confusing rainbow effect where orange soda sat next to orange juice and orange-flavored sports drinks, while Coke products were separated across the cooler based on the colors in their logos. Bob was convinced this would “stimulate the visual cortex purchasing centers of the brain,” a phrase he’d picked up from a YouTube video about retail psychology that he’d only watched halfway through.
   As Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir” began playing over our ancient sound system—part of Bob’s “Mystic Journey Playlist” designed to “expand customers’ consciousness toward premium snack purchases”—the automatic doors slid open to reveal a middle-aged man in a faded Alabama Crimson Tide cap, cargo shorts regardless of the October chill, and a t-shirt that read “I DON’T NEED GOOGLE, MY WIFE KNOWS EVERYTHING.” His face had the weathered look of someone who spent his weekends either fishing or telling elaborate stories about fishing, and he carried himself with the confident swagger of a man who had opinions on everything and considered them all equally valuable regardless of his actual knowledge on any given subject.
   He made a beeline for the coffee station, assessed each pot with a critical eye, and ultimately filled the largest cup available with what we euphemistically called our “Bold Roast” but was really just the pot that had been sitting on the burner the longest. He added four sugars and enough creamer to change the beverage’s fundamental molecular structure before approaching the counter with the self-assured stride of someone about to share an opinion nobody asked for.
       “You following this whole P. Diddy situation?” he asked, setting his coffee down and leaning on the counter like we were old friends catching up at a neighborhood barbecue rather than complete strangers conducting a retail transaction at 10:47 PM in a gas station with a homicidal one-eyed bear mascot.
     “Vaguely,” I replied noncommittally, knowing from experience this was safer than either complete ignorance or detailed knowledge. The middle ground allowed the conversation to proceed without either insulting the customer’s interest or encouraging a full dissertation on whatever topic they’d fixated on.
      “I’ve figured it out,” he said, tapping his temple with his index finger. “The whole case. It’s not what everybody thinks. The media’s got it all wrong, as usual.”
     “Oh?” I replied, scanning his coffee. “$1.79.”
       “It’s the baby lotion,” he declared triumphantly, slapping exact change on the counter with the flourish of someone revealing the solution to a complex mystery. “The feds found all that baby lotion at his house, right? Thousands of bottles? That’s the real crime.”
     “I thought he was charged with trafficking and racketeering,” I said, immediately regretting engaging as the words left my mouth. Six months at Chill n’Fill had taught me that expressing any factual knowledge was an invitation for a customer’s unhinged rebuttal, but sometimes my commitment to basic reality slipped through before I could stop it.
     “That’s just the cover story,” he said, lowering his voice to a dramatic whisper and leaning further across the counter, close enough that I could smell the coffee on his breath mingling with the vague scent of beef jerky and what might have been WD-40. “He was running an underground baby lotion operation. Think about it—why would one man need thousands of bottles unless he was distributing them illegally?”
       “I’m not sure that having baby lotion is illegal,” I ventured, trying to inject a modicum of logic into what was clearly about to become an evidence-free zone.
     “That’s what they want you to think,” he replied, eyes widening with the fervor of a true believer. “But the baby lotion market is controlled by powerful interests. Big Lotion doesn’t want independent distributors cutting into their profits. Diddy was building a lotion empire right under their noses.”
   He took a long sip of his coffee, nodding to himself as if confirming the brilliance of his own theory, then continued with increasing enthusiasm. “The celebrity stuff is just a front. His music career? A distraction. His real business was black market moisturizers. Probably smuggled them in music equipment cases when he was touring. The perfect cover.”
   I nodded politely, hoping he’d take his coffee and theories elsewhere, but he was just getting started, settling into what appeared to be a well-rehearsed exposition on the shadowy underworld of skin care products.
       “You ever wonder why babies have such soft skin? It’s the lotion. And who controls the baby lotion supply? The global elites. Diddy was trying to break the monopoly, selling premium baby lotion at discount prices through his network of celebrity contacts. That’s why they came after him.”
     “Interesting perspective,” I offered neutrally, having found this phrase to be the verbal equivalent of a non-committal shrug.
      “It goes deeper than you think,” he continued, warming to his subject with evangelical zeal. “The baby lotion formula contains rare ingredients harvested from exclusive sources. That’s why the profit margins are so high. Johnson & Johnson doesn’t want you to know that their ‘special formula’ costs pennies to make but sells for dollars. Diddy figured out their secret recipe and was about to flood the market with generic alternatives. They couldn’t let that happen.”
   As Led Zeppelin faded out, Baby Lotion Conspiracy Guy launched into an increasingly elaborate explanation of how the entire music industry was actually a front for various cosmetic product distribution networks. According to him, Beyoncé controlled the high-end perfume trade, Jay-Z had cornered the market on exclusive hair products, and Taylor Swift’s empire was built on secretly owning the patents to the most popular shade of red lipstick in America. All of this was delivered with absolute conviction and exactly zero supporting evidence.
   Before I could respond or find a polite way to extricate myself from this masterclass in creative speculation, the door opened again, and a second customer entered as Motörhead’s “Ace of Spades” began playing. This one was a younger man, maybe early twenties, wearing a backwards cap, basketball shorts despite the autumn chill, and a hoodie with some energy drink logo I didn’t recognize. He had the distinct look of someone who had strong opinions about workout supplements and had probably, at some point in his life, punched a wall during an argument.
   He grabbed a Red Bull from the cooler and approached the counter, overhearing the tail end of the baby lotion conspiracy as he arrived.
      “Nah, man, you got it all wrong,” he interjected without hesitation, placing his Red Bull on the counter with enough force to make it wobble. “The baby lotion isn’t about some underground business. It’s about the assault.”
   Baby Lotion Conspiracy Guy turned to face the newcomer, clearly offended that his carefully constructed theory was being challenged. “What assault?”
      “The one on video, man. Where he beat up his ex-girlfriend,” Red Bull Guy replied, referencing the hotel surveillance footage that had been widely circulated online. “It’s obvious the baby lotion is what made him do it. That stuff contains chemicals that alter your brain chemistry.”
     “That makes no sense,” I said, unable to stop myself from pointing out the glaring flaws in this new theory. The night shift had eroded my customer service filter, allowing bits of unvarnished honesty to leak through.
      “Makes perfect sense,” Red Bull Guy insisted, tapping the side of his head in a gesture surprisingly similar to Baby Lotion Conspiracy Guy’s earlier move. “Baby lotion contains, like, at least fifteen chemicals I can’t even pronounce. One of them has to affect aggression levels. He probably absorbed it through his skin, and it turned him violent. It’s basic science.”
     “That’s not how topical products work,” I pointed out. “Skin creams don’t generally alter brain chemistry.”
       “Oh yeah? Then why do they call it ‘Johnson & Johnson’? Two Johnsons. Double the chemicals, double the danger,” he said with the confidence of someone who believed he’d just delivered an irrefutable scientific argument, the kind that would stand up to rigorous peer review in prestigious medical journals.
   Baby Lotion Conspiracy Guy shook his head in disappointment. “You’re missing the bigger picture. The assault is just a distraction from the baby lotion trafficking operation. They’re using that video to divert attention from his underground moisturizer empire.”
       “No, the baby lotion trafficking story is a cover-up for the chemical effects of the lotion itself,” Red Bull Guy countered. “The government knows the truth about these products but keeps it hidden because too many powerful people make money from them.”
   I rang up the Red Bull ($3.49) and hoped they’d both leave after paying, but instead, they settled into an increasingly heated debate about baby lotion properties, standing near the counter and gesturing animatedly. Their theories grew progressively more outlandish, involving everything from secret government testing to alien technology harvested from Roswell and incorporated into premium moisturizers.
   Baby Lotion Conspiracy Guy insisted that the lotion contained tracking devices allowing the government to monitor citizens through their skin, while Red Bull Guy countered that it actually contained microscopic mood-altering parasites designed by pharmaceutical companies to create aggression, thus leading to more crime and higher prison populations, which somehow benefited the industrial-prison complex. Both theories were delivered with absolute conviction and supported by the kind of circular logic that made my head hurt more than the flickering fluorescent lights.
    It was around this point that I noticed a woman had been sitting at our small dining area the entire time. She’d been so quiet I hadn’t realized she was there, tucked into the corner booth with a dog-eared paperback novel and a cup of coffee that had probably gone cold hours ago. She looked to be in her late thirties, wearing navy blue scrubs with tiny cartoon stethoscopes on them and an expression of profound weariness that suggested she’d just finished a 12-hour shift dealing with people significantly less rational than these two baby lotion theorists.
   As The White Stripes’ “Seven Nation Army” began playing, she finally stood up, closed her book (which I now noticed was a medical thriller with a scalpel on the cover), and approached the counter. The two men were still deep in their debate, now somehow connecting baby lotion to the Kennedy assassination and the real reason behind daylight saving time. According to Baby Lotion Conspiracy Guy, the extra hour gained or lost twice a year was actually designed to disrupt people’s skincare routines, forcing them to use more products to compensate for the stress on their skin.
       “I’ll take two hot dogs, a pack of Virginia Slims, a Monster energy drink, three king-size Snickers, a condom, some fish hooks, and…” she paused, looking at the two men with a mischievous glint in her eye, “a bottle of baby lotion.”
   The two men fell silent, staring at her with a mixture of suspicion and awe, as if she had just announced herself to be either a fellow conspiracy theorist or perhaps a government agent sent to monitor their discussion.
       “Coming right up,” I said, grateful for the interruption as I gathered her items and placed the hot dogs in the roller grill to heat.
     “Been listening to these two for the past twenty minutes,” she said quietly as I worked, her voice low enough that only I could hear. “I think they’ve been watching too many YouTube videos at 3 AM. Or maybe they’re sampling products from the back of someone’s van.”
   I nodded in agreement, scanning her items. “That’ll be $27.34.”
   She handed me her credit card. “The fish hooks are for actual fishing, by the way. My kid’s got a tournament tomorrow. The rest is just survival gear for the night shift at the hospital. The cigarettes are for my colleague who keeps ‘forgetting’ her wallet, the energy drink is self-explanatory, the Snickers are dinner, breakfast, and emergency backup dinner, and the condom is an aspirational purchase.”
      “And the baby lotion?” I couldn’t help asking, glancing toward the two men who were still watching her suspiciously.
       “My hands get dry from all the hand sanitizer at work,” she replied at normal volume, clearly intending for the two theorists to hear. “Though I suppose it could also be for my underground smuggling operation or to induce violent rage. Who knows? Maybe I’ll overthrow a small government later, or start trafficking in black market moisturizers.”
   The two men looked at her uncomfortably, suddenly aware that their conversation had an audience, and not a particularly impressed one at that.
       “You two do realize that possessing baby lotion isn’t actually illegal, right?” she said, turning to face them directly. “And that topical products don’t affect your brain chemistry unless you’re drinking them, which I strongly advise against? Trust me, I’ve seen the results of people ingesting things not meant for consumption, and it never ends with a coherent conspiracy theory.”
     “That’s what they want you to think,” Baby Lotion Conspiracy Guy mumbled, though with notably less conviction than he’d shown earlier. His certainty seemed to wilt under the gaze of someone who clearly had actual medical knowledge.
       “Who’s ‘they’?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Johnson & Johnson? The FBI? The International Baby Lotion Conspiracy Organization?”
     “The global elite,” he replied weakly. “The ones who control everything.”
      “Ah yes, the all-powerful moisturizer mafia,” she nodded, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Truly the hidden hand behind world affairs. And here I thought it was complex socioeconomic factors, geopolitical tensions, and the fundamental human tendencies toward tribalism and greed. Silly me.”
   Red Bull Guy shuffled his feet, suddenly very interested in the floor tiles. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s complicated.”
      “I’m a psychiatric nurse,” she replied flatly. “I understand complicated mental processes just fine. I spend twelve hours a day dealing with people experiencing actual psychosis, paranoia, and delusional thinking. Trust me when I say I’ve heard more convincing conspiracy theories from people actively hallucinating.”
   With that devastating blow to their credibility, both men muttered excuses about needing to be somewhere else and shuffled out of the store, leaving their half-finished theories hanging in the air like the lingering scent of cheap coffee and wounded pride.
   The nurse collected her items, offering me a sympathetic smile. “You get a lot of those in here?”
      “You’d be surprised,” I replied, bagging her purchases. “The night shift attracts a unique demographic. Something about the hour and the liminal nature of gas stations seems to inspire people to share their most unhinged theories.”
     “Tell me about it,” she laughed. “At least yours don’t need medication and restraints. Though judging by those two, perhaps they should. The overnight hours have a way of making people’s filters disappear.”
       “It’s like the normal rules of society don’t apply between 10 PM and 6 AM,” I agreed. “Especially not at Chill n’Fill.”
     “Well, if you ever get tired of retail and want a career change, we’re always hiring at the hospital,” she said. “The pay’s better, and the conspiracy theories are much more creative. Last week I had a patient who believed his dental fillings were picking up radio signals from Mars.”
       “Were they?” I asked with a straight face.
     “Of course,” she replied with equal seriousness. “The Martians are very interested in his opinions on reality television. They find The Bachelor particularly fascinating.”
   We shared a laugh, a moment of solidarity between night shift workers in different fields but similar trenches. As she headed for the door, she turned back. “Good luck with your next customers. And if anyone comes in talking about how baby powder is actually ground-up moon rocks, just nod and smile.”
   As she left, I began the closing procedures for the night, restocking the candy aisle where the teenagers had decimated the sour gummy selection and wiping down the coffee station where Baby Lotion Conspiracy Guy had spilled creamer in his enthusiasm. I found myself reflecting on the strange parade of baby lotion theorists and wondering what Jennifer’s actual excuse had been. Perhaps she too had been trapped in an endless conversation about moisturizer conspiracies, or maybe she was the mastermind behind the whole baby lotion underground empire. At this point, either seemed equally plausible.
   I was just about to text my roommate about the evening’s events when Bob’s voice suddenly crackled over the PA system, making me jump despite having worked here for months. The system had been installed in 1994 and had degraded to the point where Bob’s voice always sounded like it was being transmitted from the bottom of a well through a kazoo.
              “ATTENTION VALUED CHILL N’FILL TEAM MEMBER—YES, SINGULAR, BECAUSE JENNIFER HAS BEEN REMOVED FROM THE SCHEDULE DUE TO EXCESSIVE MYSTERIOUS ABSENCES!” Bob’s voice boomed at a volume entirely unnecessary for our small store. “I BUILT HER A MONUMENT, KARLEE! A LITERAL MONUMENT! THE EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH PLAQUE WITH HER PICTURE AND A SPECIAL SHELF FOR HER COLLECTIBLE SLUSHIE CUPS! AND SHE DIDN’T EVEN APPRECIATE IT! THAT’S THE PROBLEM WITH TODAY’S YOUTH—THEY DON’T APPRECIATE MONUMENTS! WELL, MONUMENTS GET REMOVED WHEN WORK ETHICS ARE NEGLECTED! CONGRATULATIONS, KARLEE, YOU ARE NOW OUR FULL-TIME NIGHT SHIFT COORDINATOR! YOUR BADGE OF HONOR IS A COMPLETE LACK OF SOCIAL LIFE AND PERMANENT CIRCADIAN RHYTHM DISRUPTION! AS A BONUS, YOU’LL BE THE FIRST TO MEET OUR NEW WEDNESDAY BEAR COSTUME: ‘CONSPIRACY THEORY BEAR’! IT’LL HAVE A TINFOIL HAT AND EVERYTHING! I’VE ALREADY STARTED COLLECTING ALUMINUM FOIL FROM MY LEFTOVER LUNCHES! REMEMBER: THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE… SPECIFICALLY, IN AISLE FOUR WHERE WE’RE RUNNING A SPECIAL ON BEEF JERKY! BOB OUT!”
   The system cut off with a squeal of feedback that probably violated several OSHA noise regulations, leaving me in silence except for Guns N’ Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle” which had just started playing—an oddly appropriate soundtrack to my new full-time status and the bizarre ecosystem of Chill n’Fill after dark.
   I pulled out my phone and texted my roommate: “Jennifer has been fired for her mysterious absences, I’ve been promoted to full-time night shift, and I’ve spent my evening listening to two grown men debate whether baby lotion is an underground criminal enterprise or a violence-inducing chemical weapon, only to be demolished by a psychiatric nurse with zero patience for nonsense. Bob is making a Conspiracy Theory Bear costume and collecting tinfoil for its hat. Also, he’s apparently built a ‘monument’ to Jennifer that she failed to appreciate. Just another night at Chill n’Fill.”
   As I hit send, I wondered what new theories tomorrow night would bring. With my newly expanded schedule, I’d have plenty of opportunities to find out. The thought was simultaneously depressing and oddly comforting—at least my life would never be boring. In a world of retail monotony, Chill n’Fill occupied a unique space where the bizarre was routine and the routine was nonexistent.
   I glanced at Horror Movie Bear, its milk-jug hockey mask reflecting the flickering fluorescent lights, its single remaining eye staring back at me like it knew something I didn’t. The empty socket where its other eye had been gave it an oddly menacing appearance, despite Bob’s attempts to dress it up as various characters week after week. Installed precariously above the faded remnants of the old Marty’s Quikmart sign, it seemed like a perfect metaphor for Chill n’Fill itself—a hastily rebranded, slightly damaged establishment existing in the liminal space between the old gas station it used to be and whatever Bob’s fevered retail imagination envisioned it becoming.
   I wondered what incarnation Bob would create next. Conspiracy Theory Bear with its tinfoil hat would certainly be something to behold. Maybe after that we’d get Alien Abduction Bear, or Cryptid Hunter Bear, or Doomsday Prepper Bear with tiny cans of survival food. Would I too eventually get a monument, only to have it removed when I inevitably failed to live up to Bob’s eccentric standards of employee dedication? Only time would tell.
   As I contemplated our mascot’s future costumes and my own retail fate, I realized I’d gradually become as strange as the customers who frequented Chill n’Fill, my reality shaped by the endless parade of night shift eccentricity. The thought should have troubled me more than it did, but by now I’d accepted my role as chronicler of convenience store weirdness—historian of the overnight hours when normal people were asleep and the truly unusual came out to debate baby lotion conspiracies under flickering lights while a one-eyed polar bear dressed as a horror movie villain silently watched it all unfold with its singular, judgmental gaze.