TumbleDweeeb

The Great Doritos Heist and Other Wednesday Night Adventures

   It was Wednesday night at Chill n’Fill, and I was two hours into my shift when Bob’s latest creation nearly gave me a heart attack. He’d transformed our one-eyed polar bear mascot into what he called “Detective Bear,” complete with a deerstalker hat that was three sizes too small, a magnifying glass duct-taped to its paw, and a fake mustache that had clearly been stolen from a Halloween clearance bin. The mustache was crooked, giving the bear a permanently suspicious expression that somehow made its missing eye even more intimidating. Around its neck hung the usual chalkboard reading: “THE SNACK IS ELEMENTARY, MY DEAR WATSON!” in Bob’s characteristic all-caps handwriting.
       “Crime-solving retail experience, Karlee!” Bob had explained earlier while gluing the mustache in place with what appeared to be an entire tube of craft glue. “People need more mystery in their midnight munchies! We’re not just selling snacks—we’re providing clues to satisfaction! Think about it—every purchase is evidence of human desire, every customer a suspect in the case of late-night cravings!”
   The bear’s single eye peered through its magnifying glass with what seemed like genuine suspicion, as if it had been watching too many detective shows and was now convinced everyone who entered our humble establishment was up to something criminal. Bob had even added a small pipe made from a toilet paper roll and aluminum foil, though it kept falling out of the bear’s mouth because, well, bears don’t actually have opposable thumbs to hold pipes.
   The evening had started quietly enough. Our usual Wednesday night crowd consisted of third-shift workers grabbing coffee, college students procrastinating on assignments, and the occasional insomniac seeking the comfort of fluorescent lights and processed foods. I’d been restocking the automotive section—a Sisyphean task that Bob insisted I perform every hour “for optimal customer satisfaction”—when I noticed the fluorescent light above the chips aisle had developed a new stutter pattern that seemed almost morse code-like. Dot-dot-dash, flicker, darkness, repeat.
   I should have known it was going to be one of “those” nights when our mysterious radio started playing the Pink Panther theme song at exactly 10:47 PM, just as the automatic doors slid open to reveal the most suspicious-looking group of customers I’d ever seen in my eight weeks of late-night retail servitude.
   Three teenagers entered like they were planning a heist in a movie where the budget was twelve dollars and the director had learned everything about crime from watching YouTube videos. The leader wore a black hoodie, sunglasses at night, and a patchy fake beard made from cotton balls. His two accomplices wore matching black beanies pulled down over their eyes—one tall and gangly, the other short and round.
   They immediately scattered to different sections of the store with about as much stealth as a marching band performing in a library, whispering loudly to each other in what they clearly thought were covert communications but sounded more like a community theater production of “Spy Kids: The Musical.”
      “Eagle One, do you see the target?” hissed the leader, poorly disguising his voice by making it deeper, which mostly just made him sound like he was going through puberty backwards.
     “Roger, Falcon Leader, the Nacho Cheese Doritos are in sight,” replied the tall one from the snack aisle, somehow managing to make grabbing a bag of chips look like defusing a bomb. He was examining the Doritos bag like it contained state secrets, turning it over and over and even holding it up to the light as if checking for watermarks.
   “This is Mongoose,” added the third kid from the candy section, apparently having chosen his code name from a hat filled with random animal names. “I have eyes on the secondary objective: sour gummy worms. The package appears to be… gummy.”
   I watched this unfold with growing amusement while pretending to organize the cigarette racks, a task that mostly involved trying not to laugh out loud at the increasingly elaborate heist unfolding before me. These kids were clearly planning something, but they had the criminal sophistication of a Saturday morning cartoon.
   The leader approached the counter first, sliding his sunglasses down just enough to peer over them dramatically. The cotton ball beard shifted precariously as he attempted what I assumed was supposed to be a menacing expression but looked more like he was trying to solve a difficult math problem.
      “Good evening, civilian,” he said in a voice that was definitely not his normal voice—deeper, with what might have been an attempt at a British accent that sounded more like a robot with a head cold. “I require… *purchasing services*.”
    “What’s with the secret agent routine?” I asked, fighting back laughter and trying to maintain some professional customer service.
       “One energy drink,” he said, placing a Red Bull on the counter, as if he were presenting evidence in a courtroom. “And I need to case the joint— I mean, admire your fine establishment’s… security features.”
   Behind him, his accomplices were engaged in what had to be the world’s most obvious reconnaissance mission. The tall one was actually crawling on his hands and knees past our single security camera, apparently unaware that crawling made him significantly more conspicuous than just walking normally. The shorter one had appointed himself lookout and was standing by the door loudly humming the Mission Impossible theme while doing what appeared to be interpretive dance.
      “Nice setup you’ve got there, Detective Bear,” I said loud enough for the kids to hear, nodding toward our mustachioed mascot. “Really brings out your… investigative skills.”
   The leader’s eyes went wide behind his sunglasses, and I saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed nervously. “Did… did that bear just move?”
      “Oh, that’s just Detective Bear,” I replied casually, leaning against the counter as if discussing the weather. “He’s been investigating some suspicious activity tonight. Very thorough investigator. Never misses anything. Has a sixth sense about people who are up to no good.” I paused for dramatic effect. “Some say he can smell guilt.”
   All three kids froze like deer in headlights, staring at the bear’s magnifying glass eye with growing paranoia. The shorter one stopped humming entirely, and the tall one was still frozen mid-crawl, looking like he was reconsidering his life choices.
      “Falcon Leader to team,” whispered the leader, not nearly as quietly as he thought and completely forgetting his fake accent in his panic. “Mission may be compromised. The bear knows. Repeat: the bear knows.”
    “Should we abort?” whispered back the tall one, still on his hands and knees but now looking genuinely concerned about the bear’s investigative capabilities.
      “Negative,” the leader replied, his voice cracking slightly. “We’ve come too far. Execute Operation Snack Attack.”
   The “heist” began in earnest when they split up again, this time moving with the grace of elephants trying to tiptoe through a china shop. The leader created what he apparently thought was a distraction by loudly asking me about our bathroom policy, while his accomplices began their “infiltration” of the snack aisle.
      “So if someone were to, hypothetically, need to use your facilities for an extended period,” the leader said, still wearing his sunglasses and adjusting his cotton ball beard, “what would be the protocol for… extended visits?”
   Meanwhile, the tall one was using his phone’s flashlight to “scan for security devices” on the Doritos display, apparently convinced that we had laser grids protecting our snack inventory. The shorter one created what appeared to be a diversion by accidentally-on-purpose knocking over a display of beef jerky.
      “Oh no!” shouted the jerky-knocker-overer, way too loudly. “What a totally unexpected accident! I sure hope this doesn’t draw any attention to the snack aisle where nothing suspicious is happening!”
   That’s when I realized what was actually happening. These weren’t criminal masterminds—they were three kids who’d clearly made some kind of bet about shoplifting, but they were so nervous and guilt-ridden about it that they were practically announcing their intentions with a megaphone.
      “Eagle One to base,” whispered the tall one into his sleeve. “Package secured. Repeat, the Doritos package is secured.”
   I watched him slip a bag into his jacket with the finesse of someone who’d learned shoplifting techniques from America’s Dumbest Criminals. He might as well have been holding up a sign reading “I AM STEALING THIS RIGHT NOW.”
      “Mongoose has the gummy worms,” reported the shorter accomplice, somehow making a bag of candy disappear into his backpack while making enough noise to wake the dead.
   The leader was sweating bullets despite the store’s aggressive air conditioning. “Mission accomplished, team. Time for extraction. Execute exit strategy Alpha.”
   But as they headed for the door, Detective Bear’s magnifying glass caught the fluorescent light in a way that made it seem like it was staring directly at them with accusatory intensity. All three kids stopped dead in their tracks.
     “Dude,” whispered the tall one, “I think the bear saw everything.”
    “Bears can’t testify in court,” whispered back the shorter one, though he sounded less confident than his words suggested.
       “But what if it’s a police bear?” asked the leader, his voice rising to nearly normal volume. “What if it’s undercover?”
   I decided to have mercy on them before they hyperventilated. “Hey guys,” I called out casually, “you know we have security cameras, right? And I’m pretty sure I saw some Doritos fall out of your jacket when you turned around.”
   They stood there frozen before the leader slowly removed his sunglasses and began peeling off his cotton ball beard.
      “Are we… are we in trouble?” he asked in his normal, very young-sounding voice.
    “That depends,” I said, crossing my arms but trying to look more amused than angry. “Are you going to pay for that stuff, or are we going to have to call in Detective Bear to solve this case?”
   All three of them immediately started digging through their pockets, pulling out crumpled bills and loose change. The tall one frantically removed the Doritos from his jacket while the shorter one was digging gummy worms out of his backpack.
      “We have money!” the leader said quickly. “We always had money! This was just… practice!”
  “Practice for what?” I asked, genuinely curious.
     “Uh… drama club?” offered the tall one weakly.
   “We’re doing a play about… crime… solving?” added the shorter one.
     “It’s very avant-garde,” said the leader, nodding seriously. “Very experimental.”
    “Right,” I said, not buying it for a second but appreciating their creativity. “Very method acting.”
   “That’ll be $8.47 for the Doritos, gummy worms, and your earlier Red Bull,” I said, scanning their items while trying not to laugh at their obvious relief.
     “Keep the change,” said the leader, handing me a crumpled ten-dollar bill like he was paying protection money. “And, uh… maybe don’t tell anyone about our… drama club practice?”
    “Your secret’s safe with me,” I assured them. “But next time you want to practice your acting, maybe choose a script that doesn’t involve actual retail theft?”
   As they shuffled toward the door, Detective Bear seemed to watch them go with its magnifying glass eye, like a satisfied sleuth who’d solved another case through intimidation alone.
      “Hey,” I called out just before they reached the exit. “Nice fake beard, by the way. Really brought out your eyes.”
   The leader’s face turned bright red as he touched the spot where his cotton ball beard had been. “Thanks. I made it myself.”
      “I could tell,” I said with a grin.
   After they left, the radio switched to “Mambo No. 5” by Lou Bega, just as the automatic doors opened to admit our second customer of the evening.
   This one was a woman in her forties, wearing what appeared to be a homemade superhero costume assembled from household items and dollar store accessories. She wore a bath towel safety-pinned as a cape, a plastic tiara, and bright yellow rain boots covered in lightning bolt stickers. Over her regular clothes, she wore a modified apron with a large “S” drawn on it in permanent marker.
   She marched straight to the energy drink section with the focused resolve of someone preparing for battle, selecting three Red Bulls, two Monster energy drinks, and what appeared to be every caffeine pill we had in stock. Then she made her way to the coffee station where she began preparing what appeared to be the most caffeinated beverage known to humanity.
   When she approached the counter with her arsenal of caffeine and stimulants, I couldn’t help but ask the obvious question.
      “Big night of crime fighting ahead?”
     “Actually, yes,” she replied with complete seriousness, adjusting her dollar store tiara with the gravity of someone preparing for war. “My daughter’s sleepover starts in twenty minutes, and I’m the only thing standing between eight nine-year-old girls and complete chaos. This isn’t a costume—it’s armor.”
   She pulled out her phone to show me what appeared to be a military-style schedule. “Pizza arrives at 9 PM sharp—that’s T-minus thirty minutes. Movie starts at 9:30 to distract them while I clean up. Lights out is attempted at 11 PM, but based on historical data, actual lights out won’t be achieved until sometime around 2 AM if I’m lucky.”
     “Hence the energy drinks?” I asked, scanning what appeared to be enough caffeine to keep a truck driver awake for a week.
    “Phase one of the operation,” she confirmed. “Then there’s the 3 AM ‘I can’t sleep’ brigade, followed by the 4 AM ‘I miss my mom’ crisis counseling session, and inevitably the 5:30 AM ‘let’s make friendship bracelets’ incident.”
      “And the costume helps with all this?”
     “Psychological warfare,” she explained matter-of-factly. “If you show up looking like a regular mom, they smell weakness immediately. But if you show up looking like SuperMom—complete with cape and tiara—they respect the authority.”
   She gestured to her yellow rain boots. “These are tactical gear. Easy to hose down when someone spills nail polish, waterproof for when drinks get spilled, and the lightning bolts make me look fast enough to catch kids trying to sneak extra candy.”
      “That’s… actually brilliant,” I admitted.
    “Twenty-three years of parenting, honey. You learn to adapt or you perish under the weight of glitter and friendship bracelet string,” she said, gathering her caffeine supplies with military precision. “Plus, the other moms think I’m either completely insane or an absolute genius, and either way, they don’t ask me to volunteer for bake sales anymore.”
   As she headed for the door, cape flowing dramatically behind her, she paused and looked back with the expression of a soldier heading into battle.
      “Wish me luck. If you don’t see me by tomorrow night, send reinforcements. Or wine. Preferably wine.”
    “Good luck, SuperMom,” I called after her, and I genuinely meant it.
  The store returned to relative calm for about thirty minutes. Then the radio switched to classical music—specifically, Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy”—just as our third customer made his entrance with the appropriate pomp and circumstance.
  This one was a man in his sixties, impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit despite the late hour. He carried a small leather-bound notebook, a pocket calculator, and moved with the methodical precision of someone on a very specific mission.
   He spent several minutes examining our inventory like a scientist studying specimens, making detailed notes, occasionally taking measurements with a pocket ruler, and even using a magnifying glass to examine expiration dates. He photographed price tags, counted items on shelves, and at one point got down on his hands and knees to examine our floors.
   When he finally approached the counter with a single pack of Trident gum—apparently the culmination of thirty minutes of research—I was dying to know what had led to this purchase.
      “Doing some kind of research project?” I asked as I scanned his gum.
    “Quality control and comparative analysis,” he replied with the seriousness of a government inspector. “I’m Harold, and I’ve made it my retirement hobby to visit every convenience store within a fifty-mile radius to determine which establishment offers the optimal combination of selection, service, and value.”
   He pulled out a laminated spreadsheet covered in tiny handwriting and color-coded charts. “So far, I’ve evaluated forty-seven establishments across seventeen different categories: variety of inventory, freshness of perishables, competitive pricing, cleanliness of facilities, friendliness of staff, ambient atmosphere, lighting quality, music selection, bathroom cleanliness, parking convenience, hours of operation, security measures, checkout efficiency, receipt accuracy, and overall customer experience satisfaction.”
      “Seventeen categories? That’s incredibly thorough,” I said, genuinely impressed.
     “And how are we doing so far?”
      “Quite well, actually,” Harold said, consulting his notes. “You lose some points for the fluorescent light situation—very distracting flicker pattern—but you gain significant marks for that bear. Excellent conversation starter and memorable branding element.”
   He flipped through several pages revealing detailed sketches of store layouts and price comparison charts.
      “The radio’s song selection shows remarkable intuition, your snack variety is well above average, and your pricing on energy drinks is surprisingly competitive. Plus,” he added with what might have been a smile, “you handled those young amateur criminals with remarkable patience. Excellent customer service under unusual circumstances.”
     “You saw that whole thing?” I asked, surprised.
    “Oh, I’ve been observing from the parking lot for the better part of an hour,” Harold admitted cheerfully. “Had to observe the full customer experience cycle. Those boys provided excellent entertainment value and really showcased your conflict resolution skills.”
   He paid for his gum with exact change, then made one final note with a fountain pen.
      “Final score: 8.2 out of 10. Quite respectable,” he announced with authority. “You’re currently tied for third place overall with the Shell station on Highway 78.”
    “What’s in first place?” I asked, now invested in this competition I didn’t know I was participating in.
      “The Wawa over in Hoover holds the top spot with a 9.1,” Harold said with obvious admiration. “But they have unfair advantages—built-in hoagie station, superior coffee selection, and a customer loyalty program.”
     “And second place?”
      “QuikTrip on University Boulevard with an 8.7. Excellent fountain drink selection and they keep their roller grill items properly rotated. Professional operation, though lacking in character compared to your establishment.”
   As he headed for the door, he paused and tipped an imaginary hat. “Tell your manager his bear costume choices are inspired. Really elevates the entire retail experience above the mundane. I’ll be back in six months for a follow-up evaluation.”
      “We’ll be here,” I assured him.
    “Oh, and young lady,” Harold called back from the doorway, “you might want to consider fixing that fluorescent light. It’s the only thing keeping you from breaking into the 8.5 range.”
   After Harold left, I stood there processing the evening’s events. I pulled out my phone to text Evan: “Tonight’s customers: Three kids attempted elaborate snack heist with code names and fake beards, ended up paying $8.47 for the privilege. Superhero mom in homemade cape preparing for sleepover warfare with enough caffeine to power a small city. Retired convenience store critic gave us 8.2/10, currently tied for third place in fifty-mile radius. Detective Bear solved crimes through intimidation, SuperMom saved future childhoods, and Harold documented it all with scientific precision. Just another Wednesday at Chill n’Fill where entertainment comes free with purchase.”
   I found myself appreciating the beautiful absurdity of late-night retail work. Here was Detective Bear, standing guard with his magnifying glass and crooked fake mustache, having witnessed an evening where three kids made buying snacks feel like a heist movie, a caffeinated mom armed herself for sleepover warfare, and a retiree rated our customer service with scientific precision.
   Just another night where the real entertainment happened right here in our fluorescent-lit kingdom, where every customer brought their own unique brand of beautiful weirdness—and where I got paid minimum wage to have a front-row seat to people being wonderfully, ridiculously human.