TumbleDweeeb

Unbreakable Spirits, Robin Songs, and Childhood Fears

   The clock had just struck ten on this Friday night at Chill n’Fill, and the weekend energy was already crackling through the air like electricity before a storm. Behind me, tonight’s painting had appeared as Norman Rockwell’s “Saying Grace” from 1951, that tender scene of a grandmother and young boy pausing to pray in a bustling diner while other patrons looked on with quiet respect, perfectly capturing the strength found in simple faith and personal conviction.
    Outside, Bob’s towering 20-foot polar bear had been transformed into Elvis Presley, complete with a black pompadour made from electrical tape, white jumpsuit fashioned from painter’s tarps, and a pair of aviator sunglasses that Bob had somehow managed to scale up from a thrift store find. Around the bear’s neck hung a massive gold chain made from spray-painted rope. But what was more amazing… parked next to the bear was Bob’s latest acquisition, a mint-condition 1955 Chevy Bel Air in pristine turquoise and white that he’d somehow convinced his soulmate he needed “for authentic period atmosphere.”
   The “Cheinco 1957” trash can lid that served as the bear’s mechanical winking eye now seemed to fit perfectly with the retro aesthetic, its Christmas light border casting a warm, nostalgic glow.
   The old Sentinel radio model IU-355P, red and shaped like a tin lunchbox, was connected to our PA system and currently playing The Big Bopper’s “Chantilly Lace”, its ghostly mechanism apparently committed to providing an exclusively decade-appropriate soundtrack for what was happening tonight.
   The first customer of the night arrived with the bearing of someone who’d been through hell and emerged stronger for it. She was a red headed woman in her early forties, well-dressed but with a subtle edge that suggested she’d learned to armor herself against the world’s cruelties. She moved through the store with the confident stride of someone who’d stopped caring what people thought about her choices.
   She selected a bottle of wine—not the cheap stuff, but not the most expensive either—and approached the counter with the direct gaze of someone who’d learned to look life straight in the eye.
       “You know what I’ve figured out?” she announced, setting down her purchase with the authority of someone who’d earned their wisdom through experience. “When people can’t break you, they start lying about you instead.”
   I paused in scanning her wine, intrigued by the conviction in her voice. “That sounds like it comes from personal experience.”
       “Five years of it,” she replied with a laugh that held no bitterness, only hard-won understanding. “I went through a divorce, started my own business, and basically rebuilt my entire life from scratch. Some people… mostly people who were comfortable with the old version of me… didn’t like the new, stronger version.”
    “What kind of lies?” I asked, genuinely curious.
      “Oh, the classics,” she said with the weary expertise of someone who’d heard them all. “That I was ‘difficult to work with’ when I started setting boundaries. That I was ‘selfish’ when I stopped doing things that made other people comfortable at my expense. That I was ‘bitter’ when I refused to pretend everything was fine.”
   She pulled out her credit card with the decisive motion of someone who’d stopped second-guessing herself. “The funny thing is, the lies tell you more about the people spreading them than they do about you. When someone can’t break your spirit, they try to break your reputation instead. It’s like Plan B for bullies.”
       “How do you deal with that?” I asked.
     “You keep being who you are,” she said simply. “Truth has a way of surfacing eventually. People who matter will see through the lies, and people who believe them without asking questions weren’t really your people anyway.”
   She signed her receipt with the flourish of someone who’d learned to celebrate small victories. “The irony is, every lie they tell about you just proves how unbreakable you really are. If you were as weak as they wanted you to be, they wouldn’t need to make stuff up.”
   As she headed toward the door, she turned back with a smile that was pure steel wrapped in warmth. “Keep being real, okay? The world needs more people who refuse to be broken down into something more convenient for everyone else.”
   As she left, presumably to enjoy her wine while celebrating her own resilience, the Sentinel radio seemed to sense a complete shift in energy and tuned itself to Bobby Day’s “Rockin’ Robin”, that upbeat, cheerful melody that announced the arrival of someone who carried joy like a superpower.
   The automatic doors burst open to reveal a man in his sixties who moved with the bouncing energy of someone who’d never quite outgrown the excitement of being alive. He wore a vintage band t-shirt, jeans that had seen better decades, and a smile that suggested he’d just heard the world’s best joke and couldn’t wait to share it.
       “Well hello there!” he called out cheerfully, immediately beginning to sway slightly to the music. “Now that’s what I call perfect timing! ‘Rockin’ Robin’ was my absolute favorite song when I was twelve years old in 1962. Used to drive my mother crazy playing it over and over on my little record player.”
   He grabbed an armload of snacks with the enthusiasm of someone shopping for a party, moving through the aisles with a slight bounce in his step that matched the song’s rhythm. “You know, music from the late fifties… that was real music. Simple, happy, made you want to dance whether you knew how or not.”
       “Sounds like you’ve got good memories attached to this song,” I observed as he approached the counter.
     “The best!” he exclaimed, setting down his haul of chips, candy, and what appeared to be enough soda to stock a small celebration. “That summer, I must have played this song a thousand times. My buddies and I would ride our bikes around the neighborhood with my transistor blasting, singing along to whatever the local DJ threw on next—we didn’t choose the playlist… that playlist chose us. Drove the whole block crazy, but we felt like kings of the world.”
   He began humming along with the radio, unconsciously swaying as he spoke. “That’s what I love about music… it’s like a time machine. Hear one song and suddenly you’re young again, not a care in the world except whether you’ll have enough quarters for the soda machine.”
      “Planning a party?” I asked, scanning his impressive collection of snacks.
    “Great grandkids are coming over tonight,” he grinned. “Movie night and junk food. They think I’m the cool grandpa because I let them eat candy before dinner and stay up late watching old movies. Little do they know, I’m having just as much fun as they are.”
   As the song reached its cheerful chorus, he couldn’t help but tap his fingers on the counter. “Music like this reminds you that happiness doesn’t have to be complicated. Sometimes it’s just about finding something that makes you want to sing along, even if you can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”
   He paid for his party supplies and gathered his bags with the satisfied expression of someone about to spend an evening being everyone’s favorite person. “Keep playing the good stuff!” he called back as he headed for the door. “The world needs more music that makes people smile for no particular reason.”
   As he left, presumably to make new memories with his great-grandkids, the Sentinel radio sensed another shift and tuned itself to “Stand By Me” by Ben E. King … that powerful, enduring anthem about loyalty and support that had become the backbone of the movie’s emotional resonance.
   He entered like someone walking into a place he wasn’t sure he wanted to be, but couldn’t avoid. Mid-thirties, wearing clothes that suggested professional success but carrying himself with the thoughtful posture of someone who’d been wrestling with creative ambitions. He moved through the store selecting items with the kind of careful consideration that spoke to someone preparing for a long night of work.
   The familiar opening notes of “Stand By Me” seemed to give him pause, and I noticed him unconsciously nodding along as he approached the counter with a bottle of whiskey, asking for a pack of Camel non-filtered cigarettes.
       “You know what’s been on my mind lately?” he began, his voice carrying the thoughtful tone of someone who’d been analyzing his own creative process. “That movie ‘Stand by Me’ – specifically Gordie and his knack for storytelling. Remember that story he told around the campfire about Davie Hogan and the pie-eating contest?”
     “The revenge story?” I asked, intrigued by where this was heading.
       “Exactly. But here’s the thing – in the movie, that story becomes this local legend. People are still talking about it, retelling it. Gordie had this gift for taking real experiences, real people, and turning them into stories that stuck with people.” He stared at his purchases thoughtfully as Ben E. King’s voice filled the store. “That’s what real writing is, isn’t it? Taking the raw material of life and crafting it into something that resonates.”
   He looked up with the expression of someone who’d been grappling with his own creative aspirations. “I’ve been trying to write for years. Always telling myself I don’t have anything worth saying, that my experiences aren’t interesting enough. But watching that movie again, I realized Gordie wasn’t writing about extraordinary things… he was writing about ordinary people and situations, but he had the talent to make them compelling.”
      “Are you working on something now?” I asked.
     “Trying to,” he replied, a slight smile breaking through his contemplative expression. “I keep thinking about how Davie Hogan’s story worked because it wasn’t just about revenge – it was about someone finding their own way to reclaim their dignity. That’s universal. That’s why it became a hit locally in the story.”
   He paid for his items like someone preparing for a creative session. “I guess what I’m realizing is that I’ve been waiting for the perfect story to come along, when maybe I should be focusing on developing the skill to tell the stories that are already there.”
       “Sounds like tonight’s a writing night,” I observed.
     “Long overdue,” he replied, gathering his purchases as the song’s chorus swelled around us. “Gordie taught me something important – that having something to say isn’t enough. You need the craft to say it well. But if you have both…” He paused, considering. “Well, maybe your story about the pie-eating contest becomes the one people are still talking about years later.”
   He walked out the door, presumably to spend the evening working on whatever story had been waiting for him to find the courage to tell it properly. I reflected on how creativity often requires that same kind of quiet determination—the willingness to sit with your experiences until you find the right way to transform them into something others will want to hear.
   Bob emerged from the back office, apparently having heard “Stand By Me” from his desk. “You know, Karlee,” he said, admiring his ’55 Chevy through the window, “there’s something about that decade that just got everything right. The music, the cars, the style—it was like America figured out how to be cool and stayed there for ten years.”
       “Is that why you bought a ’55 Chevy for a gas station decoration?” I asked.
    “That car’s not decoration,” Bob replied with mock seriousness. “That’s a childhood dream. Plus, my soulmate said if I was going to do the 1950s theme, I needed to commit fully. The bear looks good, but it needed the proper backdrop.”
   I pulled out my phone to text Evan: “Wow, tonight’s journey through human strength and 1950s nostalgia: Woman who discovered that when people can’t break you, they lie about you instead (unshakeable resilience). I had a very happy customer dancing to ‘Rockin’ Robin’ while buying snacks for grandkids movie night (pure joy preservation) and a writer processing childhood trauma through ‘Stand by Me’ themes about choosing to protect rather than harm (ongoing courage). Bob’s bear is now Elvis with a matching Chevy Bel Air because apparently the authentic period atmosphere requires actual vintage cars. Rockwell’s ‘Saying Grace’ perfectly captured the quiet strength it takes to stand firm in your convictions. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is refuse to let other people’s cruelty change who you are.”
   It’s been another night at Chill n’Fill, where customer service meant witnessing the full range of human responses to adversity—from those who’d armored themselves with truth, to those who’d preserved their capacity for simple happiness, to those still learning to transform their wounds into wisdom. The Sentinel radio played on, Rockwell’s eternal scene of quiet faith continued, and I’ve settled in to see what other stories of survival and strength the evening might bring through our doors.