TumbleDweeeb

Chill’n’Fill
Book 3: Episode 2
Presence, Worth, and the Heart of Success
Written by: Emmitt Owens

   Tuesday night at Chill n’Fill was settling into its familiar rhythm when I looked up from restocking the candy display to see our one-eyed polar bear mascot in its latest incarnation. Bob had outdone himself this time—the bear now sported what could only be described as full Fortnite battle gear. A purple and gold battle helmet, clearly crafted from painted cardboard and aluminum foil, sat at a jaunty angle on its head. A tiny harvesting pickaxe made from a broken spatula and duct tape had been secured to its right paw, while the most impressive addition was a small glider wing fashioned from what I recognized as a repurposed pizza box and metallic paint, strapped to the bear’s back like it had just landed from the Battle Bus.
   The mechanical eye, made from that garbage can lid stamped “Cheinco 1957,” caught the light from the Christmas tree bulbs wrapped around its form, while the battle helmet’s reflective surface threw rainbow prisms across the parking lot. The bear’s newest addition was a tiny cardboard “Victory Royale” banner hanging from the glider wing, apparently crafted from a cereal box and painted in glittery gold letters—Bob’s tribute to gaming culture that he clearly didn’t quite understand but embraced with characteristic enthusiasm. The chalkboard around its neck read: “PRESENCE IS THE ONLY PRESENT THAT MATTERS.”
   Above my register, Edvard Munch’s “The Scream” had replaced last week’s painting—its swirling, turbulent sky and anguished figure somehow perfect for a place where people came to unload their deepest truths under fluorescent lighting. Bob had been passionate about art since he was a child, and he genuinely believed that placing meaningful paintings on display would enhance the entire Chill n’Fill atmosphere. He felt that beautiful art would be magnetic to our wonderful customers and create a more inspiring environment for his hardworking cashiers.
   I was arranging the last of the chocolate bars when I noticed my first customer of the evening hovering near the greeting cards. She moved with that careful composure like someone holding themselves together through sheer willpower while their world shifted beneath their feet. Her gray cardigan and sensible shoes were the uniform of someone desperately clinging to normalcy.
   For ten minutes, I watched her wander the aisles in what seemed like random browsing but felt more like a ritual. Pick up crackers, read ingredients, set them down. Examine a magazine without seeing the cover. She was using shopping as meditation, processing something far heavier than late-night snack selection.
   Finally, she approached my counter with two carefully chosen items: a sympathy card and a small succulent with a tag that read “Low Maintenance, High Impact.”
       “Will this be everything?” I asked, noting how she held both items like they were fragile treasures.
   She looked up, and for a moment, her maintained composure cracked. “Can I ask you something? Do you think people really understand what they have until it’s gone?”
   Before I could answer, our mysteriously sentient radio crackled to life with Joni Mitchell’s “Big Yellow Taxi.” The opening chords filled the store as Mitchell’s voice began its melancholy meditation on not knowing what you’ve got till it’s gone.
       “That’s…” I gestured toward the speakers, genuinely unnerved by the timing.
     “Perfect,” she finished with a sad smile. “I just left my mother’s hospice room. For the first time in weeks, she was alert enough to have a real conversation.”
   She handed me exact change but didn’t move to leave. Something about the transaction had opened a door she needed to walk through.
       “Everyone’s been taking shifts,” she continued, her voice growing stronger. “My brothers flying in from other states, my sister taking time off work, cousins appearing with flowers and profound final words. But I was the one who showed up every day for months. Not because I’m a better daughter, but because I work from home and could manage the routine. Every afternoon—coffee, small talk, nothing earth-shattering.”
   Mitchell’s lyrics about paving paradise provided a haunting soundtrack as her story unfolded.
     “When she declined last week, suddenly everyone wanted to be there for the Important Moments. Grand gestures, meaningful speeches, deathbed reconciliations. But today, when she was lucid, you know what she told me?”
   I waited, sensing the weight of whatever revelation was coming.
       “She said she’d missed our boring conversations. That while everyone else was trying to say something profound, I was the only one still treating her like she was alive instead of dying. Those mundane afternoon chats about weather and grocery prices? They’d become the highlight of her day.”
   Her voice caught slightly, and for a moment I thought she might break down completely. She took a shaky breath, steadying herself against the counter before continuing.
       “Last week, she told me she’d been worried about my neighbor’s cat that goes missing sometimes. I’d mentioned it months ago, just making conversation. But she remembered, and she’d been thinking about it all this time.” A tear escaped despite her efforts. “That’s when I realized that showing up every day wasn’t just routine—it was love in its most practical form.”
     “That’s beautiful,” I said softly. “What did you tell her about the cat?”
       “That it came home safe,” she replied with a watery smile. “And she smiled like I’d given her the best news in the world. Such a small thing, but it mattered to her because I mattered to her.”
   She gathered her purchases—the sympathy card for herself, she explained, to remember that consistency mattered, and the succulent for her mother’s windowsill, something growing and alive in a place focused on endings.
     “Presence isn’t dramatic,” she said as she headed for the door. “It’s just showing up. Again and again. Even when it feels ordinary.”
   The automatic doors slid shut behind her as Mitchell’s voice faded, leaving me alone with the profound simplicity of that truth. The store settled into that peculiar midnight quiet where the hum of refrigeration units became a meditation soundtrack, and the fluorescent lights seemed to cast everything in a more honest glow. I found myself thinking about presence versus performance—how the most meaningful gestures often felt ordinary to the person giving them.
   An hour passed in the peculiar quiet that settles over convenience stores after midnight. I’d restocked the coffee station and was wiping down surfaces when the doors opened again, this time admitting a woman who moved with the tired but friendly energy of someone getting off a long shift.
   She was probably in her late twenties, wearing a gas station uniform that looked identical to what I imagined I’d look like if Chill n’Fill required matching shirts. Her name tag read “Carrie,” and she had that particular exhaustion that comes from dealing with the public all day while maintaining professional politeness.
   She made her way straight to the energy drinks, grabbed a large coffee, and selected a bag of chips with the efficiency of someone who knew exactly what would get her through the rest of her night. When she approached my counter, she moved with the solidarity of one service worker recognizing another.
       “Long shift?” I asked, scanning her items.
     “You know how it is,” Carrie replied with a knowing smile. “Gas station life. But hey, at least we’re not alone in the weird hours, right?”
   As if welcoming a kindred spirit, our mystical radio system crackled to life with Jeris Johnson’s “My Sword,” its hard rock energy filling the store.
      “Tell me about it,” I agreed. “What’s got you up so late?”
     “Actually, I wanted to get your take on something,” Carrie said, paying for her items but clearly settling in for a conversation. “You deal with people all night too, so maybe you’ll understand this situation I’m trying to help a friend figure out.”
   She opened her energy drink and took a sip before continuing.
       “There’s this guy, Matt, who’s been messaging me lately. Nice enough guy, just trying to get to know me, you know? But here’s the thing—this dude has everything together. Like, everything. Great paying job, nice car, owns his house, bills always paid, food on the table. He gets to do what he wants when he wants to do it.”
   Jeris Johnson’s powerful rock sound seemed to underscore her story about recognizing true worth.
     “Sounds like he’s got his life figured out,” I observed.
       “Exactly!” Carrie said, getting animated. “That’s what I told him. I was like, ‘Matt, you literally have everything you need. You don’t need more.’ The only thing he’s missing is that one element—a physical relationship, someone to share all that success with.”
   She leaned against the counter, clearly working through her thoughts.
     “But here’s where I think he’s going wrong. He’s out here messaging different women, trying to convince them to give him a chance. Like, last week he sent me this long paragraph about his five-year plan and his 401k, like he was submitting a résumé for a relationship. And I told him, ‘Stop being in females’ inboxes. Eventually, someone’s going to recognize that you have more potential than most single men out there.’”
       “What did you tell him to do instead?” I asked, genuinely curious about her perspective.
     “Focus on himself and wait for the right one to message him,” Carrie said confidently. “Like, when you have your life together like that, you don’t need to chase. You should be the one being chased. He’s got everything most women say they want in a man, but he’s out here acting desperate instead of recognizing his own value.”
   She paused, organizing her thoughts. “I’ve seen it before—successful guys who think they have to sell themselves like they’re still broke and struggling. I dated this one guy who owned three businesses but spent our whole first date trying to impress me with his achievements. It was exhausting. The confidence that built those businesses should translate to dating, but somehow it doesn’t.”
   The song’s energetic rock vibe seemed to highlight the contrast between Matt’s actual worth and his approach to dating.
       “That’s interesting advice,” I said. “A lot of people think you have to pursue what you want.”
     “Sure, but there’s pursuing and then there’s begging,” Carrie replied. “When you’re established like Matt is, your energy should be different. Confident, not desperate. Let your success speak for itself instead of trying to sell yourself to everyone.”
   She gathered her purchases, energized by sharing her perspective.
       “I told him, ‘The right woman is going to see what you’ve built and want to be part of that. But if you’re constantly in people’s DMs, you look like everyone else instead of looking like the catch you actually are.’”
   As she headed toward the door, she turned back with a final thought.
       “Sometimes the best move is knowing when not to move, you know? Just be worth finding instead of doing all the finding yourself.”
   She left with the confidence of someone who’d given solid advice, Jeris Johnson’s rock anthem continuing to play as the automatic doors closed behind her.
   The store returned to its nocturnal rhythm, and I found myself observing how people sought validation in the strangest ways. Success should breed confidence, but somehow the dating world turned accomplished adults into insecure teenagers again. Maybe that was part of what made relationships so terrifying—they stripped away all your professional achievements and reduced you to just… yourself.
   The store settled back into its rhythm—the hum of refrigeration units, distant traffic, Munch’s anguished figure keeping watch above my register. It was nearly 2 AM when the doors opened to admit my final customer of the evening—a guy who introduced himself as Marcus when he grabbed his coffee cup. He was different from the others.
   A young man in his late twenties who moved with the quiet confidence of someone who’d learned to trust both his ambition and his limitations. Unlike typical performative success theater, Marcus carried himself with understated assurance—someone building something real, even if it wasn’t ready for public display.
   His clothes were simple but well-chosen: jeans that fit properly, a plain t-shirt that looked comfortable rather than strategic, sneakers chosen for function over brand recognition. He carried a worn notebook that looked like it had been through actual use, and when he pulled out his phone, it was to check the time rather than stage-manage his image.
   He moved through the store with purposeful efficiency, reading labels on vitamins and protein bars with the attention of someone who understood that small, consistent choices compound over time. At the coffee station, he prepared his drink with thoughtful precision—not for show, but because he’d learned to be intentional about even minor decisions.
   When he approached my counter with his selection—protein bar, black coffee, and a small notebook to replace his worn one—Marcus arranged them without fanfare, just making space for the transaction.
       “Long night of work ahead?” I asked, noting his alert but calm demeanor.
     “Actually, long night of thinking,” he replied with a self-aware smile. “I’m trying to figure out how to balance pushing myself with actually listening to myself, if that makes sense.”
   Our radio, which had been silent since the previous customer’s departure, responded to his honesty by shifting to The Beatles’ “Here Comes the Sun”—its gentle message about patience and gradual progress filling the store with genuine optimism.
       “That’s a tougher balance than most people realize,” I said, scanning his items.
     “I’ve been working on this business project for eight months,” Marcus explained, paying for his items but clearly working through his thoughts aloud. “Everyone keeps telling me that success requires relentless consistency—show up every day, stick to the plan, don’t let emotions derail your progress. And they’re mostly right.”
   The Beatles’ melody seemed to underscore his thoughtful approach to sustainable success.
       “But?” I prompted.
     “But I was starting to burn out,” Marcus admitted without shame. “I was so focused on maintaining consistency that I was ignoring every signal my body and mind were sending me about needing rest, or about parts of the project that weren’t working.”
   Marcus opened his new notebook, showing pages that would soon be filled with honest self-reflection.
       “Last week, I had what I initially thought was a failure. I’d been forcing myself to work on this one aspect of the project that felt completely wrong, but I kept pushing because I thought ‘consistency’ demanded it. Finally, I just… stopped. Let myself feel discouraged.”
     “What specifically felt wrong?” I asked, genuinely interested in his process.
       “I was trying to build a customer service chatbot for my app,” Marcus explained. “Every day I’d sit down to work on it, and it felt like swimming upstream. I’d get frustrated, force myself to code for hours, and produce garbage. I kept thinking I was just being lazy or avoiding hard work.”
     “And?”
       “Instead of fighting the feeling or pretending it wasn’t there, I wrote about it for three straight days. Explored why that particular approach felt so wrong. And I realized my feelings weren’t trying to sabotage my success—they were trying to guide it.”
   He showed me a page from his old notebook, filled with questions he’d asked himself. “I wrote things like: Why does this feel impossible? What would feel natural instead? What am I trying to prove by forcing this?”
       “What did you discover?”
     “That I was trying to build something I didn’t believe in because I thought successful businesses needed chatbots. But my app was about human connection—the chatbot was antithetical to everything I was trying to create. My feelings were protecting the integrity of my vision.”
   The song’s message about emerging from darkness through patience rather than force seemed to celebrate his willingness to trust his own experience.
       “The part of the project that felt wrong really was wrong,” Marcus continued, gathering his purchases. “Not because I was being lazy, but because I was trying to build something that didn’t align with my actual skills and interests. My feelings had information I needed.”
   Marcus moved toward the exit, then paused with genuine thoughtfulness—someone sharing hard-won wisdom rather than performing expertise.
     “I’m learning that sustainable success isn’t about ignoring your humanity—it’s about working with it. Consistency and emotional intelligence aren’t opposites. They’re partners. Real consistency means showing up as your whole self, not just the parts that look productive.”
   As Marcus headed for the door, he added with quiet confidence, “Once I started listening to my feelings instead of fighting them, my consistency actually improved. Because I wasn’t wasting energy on internal battles. I was using that energy to build something that actually aligned with who I am.”
   Marcus left with the balanced stride of someone who’d learned to trust both discipline and intuition, The Beatles’ message about patient progress continuing to play as the automatic doors closed behind him.
   The store settled into its deepest quiet of the night, when even the traffic outside became sporadic and the fluorescent lights seemed to hum their own contemplative song. I leaned against the counter, surrounded by the subtle orchestration of a 24-hour business at rest—the gentle whoosh of the coffee machine cycling, the distant rumble of the ice maker, the occasional electronic beep from some unseen system maintaining its vigilant watch over our small commercial ecosystem.
   Outside, our Fortnite Battle Royale Bear continued its mechanical wink, the battle helmet and glider wing creating the impression of a guardian who’d witnessed countless stories of human struggle and triumph. The Christmas tree bulbs wrapped around its form glowed against the night sky, while the chalkboard message “PRESENCE IS THE ONLY PRESENT THAT MATTERS” swayed gently in the evening breeze. The battle helmet gleamed not as armor for war, but as a crown for those who showed up—not to conquer, but to care. Its cardboard helmet wasn’t a costume anymore—it was armor forged from glitter and duct tape, proof that even fake battles reveal real truths.
   Inside, Munch’s emotional turbulence kept its eternal vigil above my register, the painted figure’s anguish seeming to understand the rhythm of human stories told and retold in this fluorescent-lit sanctuary of late-night revelation.
   Three customers, three approaches to showing up in the world: the quiet power of consistent presence, the hollow performance of imagined success, and the authentic integration of ambition with self-awareness. Each story a reminder that the most profound truths often emerge not in moments of dramatic revelation, but in the ordinary space between midnight and dawn, where pretense falls away and what remains is simply human.
   I closed up the register and settled in for the remaining hours of my shift, reflecting on what I’d witnessed. In a world obsessed with grand gestures and dramatic transformations, Chill n’Fill had become a sanctuary for smaller truths: that presence matters more than presents, that authentic hustle trumps performed success, and that sustainable achievement comes not from fighting your humanity, but from learning to dance with it.
   Just another night at the crossroads of human experience, where a one-eyed Fortnite bear stood guard over the simple wisdom that emerges when people stop performing long enough to tell the truth.