TumbleDweeeb

The Pizza Guy, The Empath, and The Asshole

   It was Thursday night at Chill n’Fill, and I was three hours into my full-time night shift. Bob had commemorated the week by dressing our one-eyed polar bear mascot as what he called “Memorial Day Bear”…complete with a tiny wreath of plastic poppies draped around its neck and a miniature American flag planted in its remaining paw. The somber patriotic theme had absolutely nothing to do with anything happening in the store and everything to do with Bob finding a box of Memorial Day clearance items behind the dumpster. The bear’s empty eye socket somehow made the memorial display more unsettling than respectful, like a war veteran having a crisis.
   The first few hours had been mercifully quiet, just the usual parade of truckers grabbing coffee, teenagers debating energy drink flavors, and Mrs. Patterson buying her nightly lottery tickets while explaining her “system” for picking numbers based on her husband’s birthday, their anniversary, and the current temperature. I’d restocked the candy aisle twice, cleaned the coffee station, and was working on the eternal battle against the mysterious sticky spot near the Icee machine when the radio suddenly switched to Mike’s Dead cover of Garbage’s “Number 1 Crush”—that obsessive, driving beat filling the store just as the automatic doors opened.
   The man who entered looked like he’d stepped out of a late-night talk radio booth …vintage Judas Priest “Screaming for Vengeance” t-shirt, cargo shorts, and the confident bearing of someone who spent his days delivering pizzas but his nights thinking deep thoughts about the universe. He carried a worn paperback and moved through the store like someone discovering a hidden treasure.
       “Fascinating,” he murmured, examining our hot dog roller with the intensity of someone analyzing ancient artifacts. He grabbed a cup of coffee, added cream with scientific precision, and approached the counter with the eager expression of someone about to share an epiphany.
     “You know,” he said, setting his coffee down and leaning forward conspiratorially, “I deliver pizzas for a living, but I’ve been thinking about this place… the convenience stores, the gas stations, these liminal retail spaces, and I believe … I’ve identified something profound.”
       “Let me guess,” I replied, scanning his coffee. “The social implications of late-night consumer behavior?”
   His eyes lit up. “Exactly! But it’s more than that. I’m in and out of places like this all night, right? And I’ve noticed these places are the perfect laboratory for human interaction. Think about it… people are transitional here, caught between destinations, guards down. They’re quick interactions but surprisingly open. It’s a goldmine of authentic human discourse!”
   I nodded politely, having learned that encouraging customers’ theories usually led to shorter conversations than disagreeing with them. “That’ll be $2.15.”
       “The power dynamics alone!” he continued, pulling out his wallet with, enthusiasm, like someone who’d been waiting all day to share this theory. “You’re the neutral guide, the arbiter, the Switzerland of social interaction. People will tell a gas station clerk things they’d never share with friends or family. It’s like you’re running an involuntary social experiment every shift!”
     “More like involuntary therapy,” I muttered, thinking of the baby lotion conspiracy theorists from last week.
       “Precisely! You’re witnessing the collective unconscious of America, one late-night encounter at a time. The casual conversations, the random confessions, the brief moments of human connection… it’s sitcom-worthy material happening in real-time!”
   He handed me exact change, beaming with the satisfaction of someone who’d just solved a complex math problem. “You should be documenting this. The gas station clerk as an accidental philosopher, chronicling the human condition through convenience store encounters. I read philosophy books between deliveries, and this stuff is gold!”
       “I’ll add it to my list of potential career changes,” I replied, “right after ‘professional taste-tester for questionable hot dogs’ and ‘keeper of the one-eyed bear.’”
   He laughed, then wandered off toward the magazine rack, still muttering excitedly about “transitional social environments” and “authentic personal dynamics.” I noticed him settle into the corner with his coffee and paperback, clearly planning to stay awhile, probably hoping to observe more of his human interactions in action.
   Almost on cue, the music shifted to Highly Suspect’s cover of the Scorpions’ “Send Me an Angel”—those haunting, pleading tones drifting through the store just as the automatic doors slid open again.
   The answer came immediately as a young woman entered, moving slowly like someone carrying invisible weight. Mid-twenties, wearing shorts and a shirt covered in cartoon cats and the exhausted expression of someone who’d just finished a difficult shift. She wandered the aisles aimlessly before selecting a pint of ice cream, a box of tissues, and a small bottle of wine… the holy trinity of emotional first aid.
   The timing was eerie—”Send Me an Angel” playing overhead as she approached the counter, its desperate plea for divine intervention seeming tailor-made for someone who clearly needed exactly that. She avoided eye contact, and I could see she’d been crying recently… that telltale puffiness around the eyes that even the best concealer can’t completely hide.
      “Rough day?” I asked gently as I scanned her items.
   She looked up, surprised by the question, then smiled sadly. “Rough day. Rough week, actually. I work at the nursing home on Route 9, and we lost someone today. Mrs. Henderson, 89 years old. I’d been taking care of her for two years.”
       “I’m sorry,” I said, meaning it. “That has to be one of the hardest parts of the job.”
     “It is.” She pulled out her credit card, hands shaking slightly. “Her granddaughter was visiting from California, and she kept asking if Grandma was scared. And I didn’t know what to say because Mrs. Henderson was unconscious, but I wanted to tell her no, that she went peacefully, but I also didn’t want to lie, and I just… I broke down right there.”
       “What did you tell her?”
     “That Mrs. Henderson talked about her all the time, how proud she was, and that she knew how much she was loved.” Tears started forming again. “The granddaughter hugged me and said thank you for caring so much. But it still hurts every time.”
   I bagged her items carefully. “For what it’s worth, I think you told her exactly the right thing. And the fact that it hurts means you’re not just doing a job… you’re making their final days matter.”
   She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Thank you. I needed to hear that. I was starting to wonder if I was too sensitive for this work, but maybe… maybe being sensitive is part of what makes it important.”
      “Definitely,” I agreed. “The world needs more people who care too much, not fewer.”
   She smiled genuinely for the first time since entering, but the tears came harder now, not sad tears, but the kind that come from feeling understood. Without thinking, I came around the counter and wrapped her in a hug. She melted into it, shoulders shaking as she let out the grief she’d been carrying all day.
       “Thank you,” she whispered. “I really needed that. I was just going to grab these things and go home to cry into ice cream, but talking to you… and this… actually helped. Maybe that song was right about angels showing up in unexpected places.”
   She moved toward the door, then paused and looked back. “Actually, do you mind if I sit for a minute? I don’t really want to be alone right now, and my apartment feels too quiet.”
       “Of course,” I said. “There’s a table by the window if you want.”
   She settled at the small table near the pizza delivery guy, who looked up from his book with genuine concern. I heard him quietly introduce himself and ask if she was okay. Soon they were talking in low voices, him sharing something about losing his grandmother the previous year, her nodding gratefully.
   That’s when our ghostly radio system struck again. The Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Could’ve Lied” burst through the speakers with those aggressive, confrontational opening chords—and right on cue, the automatic doors slid open to admit the evening’s third customer: a middle-aged man in an expensive suit who radiated the particular brand of aggressive entitlement that comes from never being told “no” and mistaking customer service for personal servitude. The song’s bitter energy seemed to announce his arrival like a warning siren.
   He stormed to the counter without buying anything, his face already flushed with preemptive outrage.
      “Your gas pumps are a disgrace!” he announced, slapping his credit card on the counter hard enough to make my coffee mug jump. “Pump number four charged my card but didn’t dispense any gas!”
     “I’m sorry about that,” I replied, immediately switching into damage control mode. “Let me check the system and see what happened. Do you have your receipt?”
       “I don’t have time for receipts! I’m late for an important dinner because your incompetent equipment doesn’t work!”
   I pulled up the pump logs on our computer system. “I see the transaction here. It shows pump four was activated but the handle wasn’t lifted. Sometimes if you don’t…”
       “Don’t you dare blame me!” he interrupted, his voice rising to a level that made the two customers at the table glance over nervously. “I’ve been using gas pumps since before you were born! The problem is this pathetic excuse for a business and its broken equipment!”
     “Sir, I understand you’re frustrated. Let me refund the charge and…”
       “Refund? I want more than a refund! I want compensation for my time, my inconvenience, and the damage to my schedule! Do you have any idea who I am?”
     “I don’t, but I’m happy to help resolve this regardless of who you are,” I replied evenly, though internally I was cataloging various creative responses involving our hot dog roller.
       “I’m the regional sales director for Morrison Industries! I could buy and sell this place ten times over! And I’m being lectured by some minimum-wage nobody about how to pump gas!”
   The nursing home worker stood up from her table, her earlier sadness replaced by protective anger. “Excuse me,” she said loudly, “but there’s no need to speak to her like that. She’s trying to help you.”
   He turned his venom toward her. “Mind your own business, sweetheart. This is between me and the help.”
      “The help?” She stepped forward, all traces of her earlier fragility gone. “You mean the person trying to solve your problem while you throw a tantrum like a toddler? Maybe the issue isn’t the gas pump, maybe it’s you.”
    “I don’t have to listen to this from some nobody in a cat shirt,” he snarled.
       “This shirt,” she replied icily, “I wear it because I work with elderly people who need comfort and familiarity, and cartoon cats make them smile. I spend my days taking care of people who’ve forgotten more about basic human decency than you’ll ever know. And for your information, I just lost someone I cared about today, so I’m really not in the mood for your privileged, entitled bullshit.”
   The pizza delivery guy had closed his book and was openly staring, probably taking mental notes about “conflict escalation in liminal retail spaces.”
       “Look,” I interrupted before the situation could deteriorate further, “I’ve processed your refund. The money will be back on your card within 24 hours. You’re welcome to try pump six, which is working fine, or you can go somewhere else. But you need to stop yelling at me and other customers.”
   He snatched his credit card off the counter. “This is exactly why places like this are dying! No customer service, no accountability, just attitude from people who should be grateful to have jobs!”
      “And people like you are exactly why retail workers quit,” the nursing home worker shot back. “Maybe treat service workers like human beings and you’ll get better service.”
   He stomped toward the door, muttering about “snowflakes” and “participation trophies,” pausing only to glare at our Memorial Day Bear like it had personally offended him.
   After he left, the store felt noticeably lighter. The nursing home worker returned to her table, shaking slightly with residual adrenaline.
      “I’m sorry,” she called over to me. “I know you probably have to stay neutral with customers, but I couldn’t just stand there and listen to him talk to you like that.”
     “Don’t apologize,” I replied. “That was amazing. You went from grieving over Mrs. Henderson to defending a stranger’s dignity in the span of thirty minutes. She would have been proud of you.”
   She smiled, tears threatening again but happy ones this time. “We all deserve to be treated with kindness, right? Whether we’re caring for people or selling coffee or just trying to get through the day.”
   The pizza delivery guy looked up from where he’d been pretending to read his book. “That was extraordinary! A perfect microcosm of class conflict, gender dynamics, and social solidarity playing out in real-time! The way you two formed an alliance against his aggressive behavior… it’s like … watching society’s immune system activate against toxicity!”
      “It’s called basic human decency,” the nursing home worker replied with a laugh. “Though I guess that’s rare enough to be socially significant.”
     “Exactly! You’ve just demonstrated that these transitional spaces … These gas stations, these convenience stores… they’re not just commercial exchanges. They’re opportunities for authentic human connection, for standing up for each other, for…”
       “For buying overpriced snacks and witnessing the full spectrum of human behavior,” I finished. “Though I have to admit, your theory about this place being a goldmine of social interaction is looking pretty accurate.”
   The nursing home worker gathered her items, looking significantly better than when she’d arrived. “Thank you both. I came in here planning to cry into ice cream alone, and instead I found people who reminded me why humanity is worth caring about.”
   As she prepared to leave, the pizza guy stood up too. “You know, I really think you should consider documenting these encounters,” he said to me. “The gas station chronicles, the convenience store confessions … there’s something profound happening here. I drive around all night thinking about this stuff, and tonight proved it.”
      “Maybe I will,” I replied, watching them exchange numbers and head toward the door together, still discussing the evening’s events.
   As the Red Hot Chili Peppers faded out and the store returned to its usual quiet hum, I reflected on the pizza delivery guy’s theory. In the span of two hours, I’d witnessed philosophical enthusiasm, genuine human empathy, and toxic entitlement.. all playing out against the backdrop of fluorescent lights and hot dogs.
   Maybe he was right. Maybe Chill n’Fill wasn’t just a gas station… it’s a laboratory for human nature, a stage where people revealed their true selves in brief, unguarded moments. Some came seeking connection, some needing comfort, others just looking for someone to blame for their problems.
   I pulled out my phone and texted my roommate: “Tonight I met a pizza delivery philosopher who thinks gas stations are goldmines of human interaction, helped a nursing home worker process grief over a patient named Mrs. Henderson, and watched said worker verbally destroy an entitled businessman who called me ‘the help.’ The pizza guy wants me to document these encounters for posterity. Also, our bear is now patriotic and somehow more unsettling than before. Just another night at Chill n’Fill, apparently the Switzerland of social dynamics.”
   As I hit send, the radio crackled once more, and Johnny Cash’s weathered voice filled the store with “Hurt”—not the original Nine Inch Nails version, but Cash’s haunting cover that somehow made the lyrics about pain and redemption feel like a meditation on the human condition itself. The timing was perfect, as always, arriving just as I needed a moment to process what had just unfolded.
   I glanced at Memorial Day Bear, its single eye seeming to reflect the weight of Cash’s words about everyone going away in the end. Maybe it had seen enough late-night human drama to understand that sometimes the most profound moments happen in the most ordinary places, between strangers buying overpriced coffee and discount wine, defending each other against casual cruelty, finding connection in shared grief and unlikely philosophy.
   The bear stood there in its random memorial costume, a silent witness to the strange theater of convenience store life, dressed to honor fallen soldiers while presiding over debates about gas station sociology and nursing home grief. As Cash sang about wearing a crown of thorns, I realized that maybe we all did, in our own small ways… the pizza delivery philosopher carrying the weight of unshared insights, the nursing home worker bearing witness to life’s final chapters, even the entitled businessman fighting battles we couldn’t see behind his aggressive facade.
   The song’s final notes hung in the fluorescent-lit air like a benediction, and for a moment, Chill n’Fill felt less like a gas station and more like a cathedral, a place where people came seeking something they couldn’t quite name, finding brief moments of grace in the most unexpected encounters.
     Or maybe I was just starting to think like the customers.
   Either way, I had five more hours to find out what other perfectly-timed musical introductions the night would bring to our little laboratory of American social dynamics, complete with slushies, questionable beef jerky, and our mysteriously prescient sound system that seemed to understand the human heart better than most people did.