TumbleDweeeb

Another Night at Chill n’Fill: Dawgs, Skateboards, and Gas Buckets

It was Friday night at Chill n’Fill, out here where the darkness stretched for miles in every direction and our mechanically-winking polar bear served as the only beacon of civilization for truckers, night shift workers, and the occasional lost soul who’d wandered too far from town. I was halfway through my shift and dealing with my own problems… my car had been making a horrible grinding noise all week, and I was pretty sure I needed a mechanic before it died completely on some back road.
   Bob had outfitted our enormous 20-foot polar bear in his newest outfit: “Mechanic Bear,” featuring coveralls crafted from blue tarp, a wrench secured to his paw with duct tape, and a tool belt made from rope and an assortment of automotive parts scavenged from the parking lot. The mechanical “Cheinco 1957” trash can lid blinked incessantly, its Christmas lights creating a pulsating glow that made the vintage inscription seem to emit an automotive wisdom beacon across the desolate fields.
   Inside, Bob’s Cultural Enhancement Gallery was displaying this week’s car theme: vintage automotive advertisements alongside his “Growth Chronicles” showing the bear’s transformation from accident victim to mechanical expert.
   The radio was playing “Who Let the Dogs Out” by Baha Men when the automatic doors slid open to reveal a man in his thirties wearing a baseball cap backwards, oversized jeans, and the kind of confident swagger that suggested he thought he was much cooler than he actually was.
      “Yo, what’s good, dawg?” he announced to the store in general, as if I’d been waiting all night for his arrival.
   He moved through the aisles with exaggerated casualness, grabbing energy drinks and snacks while maintaining a running commentary that seemed designed to establish his street credibility to an audience of exactly one… me.
    “Ay dawg, y’all got them new energy drinks, dawg?” he called out from the cooler section.
      “We have several varieties,” I replied, trying to maintain professional customer service despite the linguistic assault.
    “Bet, dawg, bet,” he said, approaching the counter with his selections. “Sup dawg, how you been, dawg? You staying busy tonight, dawg?”
      “It’s been steady,” I said, scanning his items while counting how many times he could work “dawg” into a single transaction.
     “That’s what’s up, dawg. Gotta stay on that grind, ya feel me, dawg?” He pulled out his wallet, continuing his verbal tick. “Yo dawg, lemme get some of them scratch-offs too, dawg. Feeling lucky tonight, dawg.”
    “Which ones would you like?” I asked, gesturing to the lottery display.
       “Hook me up with them good ones, dawg. You know which ones hit, dawg?” He leaned against the counter with practiced coolness. “Ay dawg, you seem like you got good luck vibes, dawg. Pick me some winners, dawg.”
   I selected a few random scratch-offs while he continued his running commentary.
      “That’s what I’m talking about, dawg! Good looking out, dawg!” He paid for his items, still maintaining the constant stream of “dawgs.” “Ay dawg, if these hit big, I’m coming back to tip you, dawg. Real recognize real, dawg.”
    “That’ll be $27.50,” I said, handing him his receipt.
      “Bet dawg, appreciate you, dawg,” he said, gathering his items. “Stay cool, dawg. Keep it real, dawg. See you around, dawg.”
   As he left, presumably to continue dawg-ing his way through life, I found myself wondering if he counted his dawgs per minute or if it was just a natural overflow that he couldn’t control.
   Just as the door closed behind the Dawg Man, Bob’s voice crackled through the ancient PA system with his characteristic enthusiasm.

“Attention Chill n’Fill customers and automotive enthusiasts! This is your friendly neighborhood Bob with an important announcement! Our Mechanic Bear is now offering automotive guidance to anyone experiencing vehicular difficulties! Simply gaze into his wise mechanical eye and share your car troubles, and let his vintage wisdom guide you toward automotive enlightenment! Remember, sometimes the best mechanic is the one who’s been through their own mechanical trauma and emerged stronger! That is all!”

   The PA clicked off, leaving me staring at our bear and wondering if Bob somehow knew about my car problems through retail intuition.
   The radio had switched to “Sk8er Boi” by Avril Lavigne when I heard the distinctive sound of skateboard wheels on asphalt outside. Through the windows, I could see a teenager, maybe sixteen, approaching the store on a skateboard with the determined expression of someone about to attempt something spectacularly stupid.
   He built up speed in the parking lot, clearly planning to ride straight through the automatic doors in what he probably imagined would be an epic entrance. The doors slid open as he approached, and for a brief moment, it looked like he might actually pull it off.
   Then physics intervened.
     The skateboard hit the slight lip at the entrance and stopped dead, while the kid continued forward at full speed, arms windmilling wildly as he tried to maintain balance. He managed about three stumbling steps before gravity claimed victory, and he crashed to the floor in a spectacular tangle of limbs, skateboard, and teenage tragedy.
      “Ow,” he groaned from the floor, his skateboard clattering somewhere near the energy drink cooler.
    “Are you hurt?” I asked, coming around the counter to check on him.
      “Nah, I’m good,” he said, picking himself up and trying to salvage what remained of his dignity. “That was totally on purpose. Sick dismount, right?”
    “That was definitely something,” I said. “But you can’t skateboard in the store. Safety regulations.”
      “Come on, it’s not even busy,” he protested, retrieving his skateboard. “I was just gonna grab a soda real quick.”
    “I understand, but you need to leave the skateboard outside,” I explained. “Store policy.”
      “That’s bogus,” he muttered, but he seemed to understand that his grand entrance had backfired. “Fine, whatever.”
    “You can come back in without the skateboard if you want to buy something,” I offered.
      “Nah, I’m good,” he said, heading for the door with his skateboard under his arm and his pride thoroughly bruised. “This place is lame anyway.”
   As he skated away into the night, probably to tell his friends about how he totally meant to crash and how the store clerk was totally uncool, I made a mental note to watch for skateboard-related entrance attempts in the future.
   The radio had shifted to “Fuel” by Metallica when the automatic doors opened to reveal a middle-aged man in work clothes carrying what appeared to be a large plastic bucket, the kind you’d use for cleaning your car or storing tools, definitely not the kind designed for gasoline storage.
   He approached the counter with the casual confidence of someone who’d never considered that there might be regulations about fuel storage containers.
      “Evening,” he said, setting the bucket on the counter. “Need to fill this up with gas.”
   I looked at the bucket… clearly not an approved fuel container, no safety features, no proper seal, and definitely illegal for gasoline storage.
      “I’m sorry, but I can’t sell you gasoline in that bucket,” I said. “It’s not a legal container for fuel storage.”
    “What? It’s just a bucket,” he replied, genuinely confused by my refusal. “Gas is gas, right?”
      “No, actually, gasoline has to be stored in approved containers,” I explained. “That bucket isn’t designed for fuel, it’s not safe and it’s illegal for anyone to fill it with gas.”
        “Come on, I’ve been using buckets for gas my whole life,” he insisted. “Never had a problem.”
     “I understand, but I could lose my job and the store could get fined,” I said, trying to remain patient. “You need a proper gas jug or approved fuel container.”
       “That’s ridiculous,” he said, picking up his bucket defensively. “It’s just plastic. What’s the difference?”
    “Approved fuel containers have safety features.. you know, proper venting, secure seals, materials that won’t break down from gasoline exposure,” I explained. “Plus, it’s the law. No gas jug, no gas.”
   He stared at me for a long moment, processing this information.
      “So you’re telling me I drove all the way out here and you won’t sell me gas because of my bucket?”
    “That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” I confirmed. “You can buy a proper gas container, or you can go somewhere else and get the same answer, because every gas station has to follow the same safety regulations.”
   He looked at the small selection of approved gas containers we had for sale, clearly weighing his options.
      “Fine,” he said with obvious irritation. “Give me one of them fancy gas jugs then. But this is ridiculous.”
    “Safety regulations usually seem ridiculous until something goes wrong,” I said, ringing up his gas container purchase. “That’ll be $12.99 for the jug, then you can fill it outside. How much gas?”
      “8 dollars worth” he said like he was irritated about Alabama laws.
    “It’ll be $22.46”
   He paid reluctantly, muttering about government overreach and simpler times when a man could put gas in whatever container he pleased.
   As I finished my shift and began the shift change routine, I found myself staring up at Mechanic Bear and thinking about Bob’s announcement. Maybe there was something to his theory about automotive guidance, because my car was definitely trying to tell me something with all that grinding and rattling.
   I pulled out my phone to text Evan: “Car trouble night at Chill n’Fill. One customer called me ‘dawg’ approximately 47 times in a five-minute transaction. A kid tried to skateboard into the store, crashed spectacularly, I kicked him out and another wanted to put gas in a bucket, learned about safety regulations the hard way. Bob’s mechanic bear theme was oddly appropriate since my car is making death rattles. Just another shift where automotive wisdom meets human stupidity under the glow of a mechanically winking trash can lid, that surprisingly nobody has asked about yet. Also, do you know any good mechanics?”
   As Diego came in to relieve my shift, I gave Mechanic Bear one last look, his tool belt glinting in the Christmas lights. If Bob was right about vintage wisdom, maybe that Cheinco 1957 trash can lid eye had seen enough broken-down cars to offer some guidance about mine.
   Just another night at Chill n’Fill, where dawgs, skateboards, and gas buckets provided the backdrop for human nature in all its repetitive… reckless, and rule-resistant forms. Where a mechanically-winking polar bear dressed as a mechanic watched over it all, reminding us that sometimes what everyone calls trash becomes the perfect witness to the beautiful complexity of people trying to navigate language, physics, and safety regulations..  usually with mixed results. The bear’s eye pulsed one final time as I walked to my potentially dying car, wondering if mechanical wisdom really could be found in a trash can lid, and hoping I’d make it home before finding out the hard way…