TumbleDweeeb

Chill n’Fill: Thankful at Pump #3
By: Emmitt Owens
Episode #68
(Index #11252025)

   Thanksgiving at the Chill n’Fill doesn’t come with tablecloths.
     It comes with salt stains on the floor mats and people swearing under their breath at Pump #3.
   The bear—twenty feet of winking plastic optimism—stood over the lot in a knit scarf and a beanie someone had Sharpie’d “GRATEFUL” across. Rain had gotten to it, so from the right angle it just read “ATE,” which honestly felt more accurate.
   Bob had duct-taped a big cardboard-and-aluminum-foil turkey to the bear’s chest around noon and called it “decor.” By the time I pulled into the employee spot, one oversized foil wing was hanging on by a single stubborn strip of tape, flapping like it was trying to make a break for it.
     Inside, the shop radio sat on the shelf above the cigarettes, humming quietly to itself. Nobody had touched it. Nobody ever needed to. If it was going to play anything, it was going to be on 96.6—all by itself.
   I clocked in. The old punch machine wheezed and thunked.
     The radio made a little static cough of its own—like it had been waiting.
   Then it kicked straight into “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” by Wham!
     “Really?” I said, hanging my hoodie on the hook. “We’re opening my shift with bubblegum?”
   George Michael’s voice bounced around the empty store, way too bright for the gray sky outside.
     Bob popped up from behind the counter with a roll of paper towels and a face like he was hosting a parade. He wore a hoodie that said GOBBLE ‘N’ PUMP over the Chill n’Fill logo.
   “See?” He nodded toward the radio. “It knows you. That’s your entrance music.”
     “Yeah,” I said. “Nothing says ‘complex adult emotions’ like a man in neon shorts telling me not to leave him hanging.”
   Bob grinned. “Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been flute music.”
     He slid the roll onto the counter and grabbed the dry-erase marker by the ‘wish-they-was’ lottery tickets. In his best serial-killer handwriting, he’d already written:

WELCOME TO THANKS-GAS-ING!
Open all night. Gratitude optional. Coffee mandatory.
Closing at 2am

   I squinted. “Thanks… gas… ing.”
     “It’s a working title,” he said. “Marketing’s still in development.”
   “We don’t have marketing.”
     “You’re right,” he said. “They’re doing a terrible job.”
   He cleared his throat theatrically and pulled out the crusty store intercom mic. It squealed, offended, when he thumbed it on.
     “Attention, valued Thanksgiving survivors.” His voice boomed through the store and out into the parking lot. “This is Bob at the Chill n’Fill. You’re not alone, the coffee is fresh, and the bathroom is mostly … usable. Spend fifteen bucks or more and you get free coffee and a mini pecan pie. Because nothing says ‘America’ like heartburn on the highway. Happy Thanksgiving.”
   He clicked it off and winced. “Think that was too much?”
     “Honestly?” I said. “That might be the most honest thing this place has ever broadcast.”
   The radio responded with a cheerful pop of static, like it agreed.
     Bob tugged his hoodie straight. “All right, Cindy. You good to fly solo for a while? I’m gonna go pretend to do inventory so I don’t have to answer any more ‘when are you coming over’ texts.”
   “Go,” I said. “I’ll protect the empire.”
     He paused, softer for a second. “Hey. Thanks for working tonight.”
   “Somebody’s gotta keep the weirdos caffeinated.”
     He gave me finger guns and vanished into the back.
   The bell above the door chimed as he left, like it wanted to mark the moment.

—

   I cleaned the coffee station, straightened the chip wall, pretended the bathroom door wasn’t hiding horrors. Outside, the parking lot lights flickered on in stages, bathing Pump #3 in its own little halo.
     The radio crackled. The station ID slid through the static.
   “…you’re tuned to 96.6 W-D-A-R, *Ray-dee-oh*,” the announcer drawled, syllables stretching like taffy. “Broadcasting to all you night shifters, road runners, and folks hiding out at the edge of somebody else’s family dinner. This next one’s for the ones keepin’ the lights on.”
     The opening piano of “Lean on Me” by Bill Withers rolled out, warm and familiar.
   I looked up at the radio.
     “Uh-uh,” I told it. “You don’t get to do therapy this early.”
   It played anyway.
     The bell jingled and a gust of cold air brought in a woman built like everybody’s favorite grandma—the tough kind who could fix a leaky sink and a broken heart with the same set of tools. Puffy purple coat, sensible shoes, hair pinned back like it had been done that way since 1982.
   She carried a foil-covered pie like it wasn’t heavy but it mattered.
     “Evening,” she said. “You open?”
   “Open and semi-functional,” I said. “What can I get you?”
     She squinted through the glass at the lot. “Need thirty on… that one there.” She leaned forward. “Number three. Of course.”
   Pump #3 blinked its little green light at us like a guilty conscience.
     “Anything else?” I asked.
   She hesitated, then set the pie very carefully on the counter between us.
     “You,” she said. “You got somewhere to be after this?”
   “Yep,” I said. “Right here. I’m closing.”
     “So that’s a no.” She pushed the pie toward me. “Then this is for you.”
   “I can’t just—”
     “Oh, you most certainly can,” she said, one eyebrow going up. “Store-bought crust, I’m not gonna cry over it. I made too much. My daughter’s table is already groaning. Take it. Consider it combat pay for dealing with people.”
   The smell hit me—apple, cinnamon, butter, the kind of scent you only get when someone’s been in a kitchen on purpose.
     “That’s really kind,” I said, because anything more than that might crack something.
   She waved a gloved hand. “You’re working while the rest of us are drinking bad coffee in nice cups. World doesn’t run without people like you. Commercials say it, but they don’t mean it. I mean it.”
     On the shelf above us, Bill Withers hit the chorus, telling the whole store what to do when you’re not strong.
   The timing was rude.
     I rang her up, added thirty to Pump 3, and slid her the receipt.
     “Don’t forget to eat that pie,” she said, tapping the foil. “Preferably sitting down like a human person and not a vending machine.”
   “I’ll try,” I said.
     “Trying’s all any of us get,” she said, then headed back out into the cold.
   Her sedan out at Pump 3 looked tired in the way old cars do when they’ve been through more winters than they were built for. The bear watched over her while the pump chugged.
     I put the pie on the shelf behind me, next to the lost-and-found sunglasses and the snow globe that refused to die.
   “Later,” I told it.
     The song faded. The announcer slid back in.
   “That one was Bill Withers remindin’ you it’s okay to lean a little,” he rumbled. “You’re still tuned to 96.6 W-D-A-R, Ray-dee-oh—and if your blessings feel a little thin, don’t worry. We got refills.”
     The radio hissed softly, like it was catching its breath.
   The next wave showed up in a beanie and ring light.
     A teenager in an oversized hoodie came in sideways, already filming on his phone. The hoodie said SUBSCRIBE on the front in letters big enough to be a threat.
     “Yo, what’s up, internet?” he announced to his followers—which at that particular moment consisted of me, the candy rack, and the sentient radio. “We’re out here at the legendary Chill n’Fill—home of the expired energy drink challenge—about to see if they’ll give us free pumpkin spice vapes if we say the magic words.”
    He pivoted to the counter and stuck the phone almost in my face.
     “Ma’am,” he said, way too loud. “What’s the least amount of money I can spend in here and still get, like, maximum Thanksgiving vibes?”
   Behind him, the radio snapped from static into the opening riff of “All Star” by Smash Mouth.
     Of course it did.
   The kid froze, then turned the camera toward the speaker.
     “No way,” he breathed. “They got meme radio.”
   I crossed my arms. “Here’s a vibe for you: we don’t sell vapes to minors, pumpkin spice or otherwise.”
     “I’m eighteen,” he protested.
   “You were fifteen like two weeks ago,” I said. I’d watched him grow three inches in the chip aisle over the last couple of years.
     He sighed, then grabbed a can of generic energy drink and a bag of Takis, holding them up like props.
   “Fine,” he told his viewers. “Tonight’s episode of ‘Thanksgiving on a Budget’ is brought to you by Mystery Caffeine and this lady.”
     “At least you’re honest,” I said, ringing him up.
   He dropped exact change on the counter, then paused. The performative energy faded just a little.
     “You gonna be here all night?” he asked.
   “Yeah,” I said. “You making a whole docu-series out there or what?”
     “Nah,” he said. “Just… my mom’s working double at the hospital. Grandma’s in Florida. Thought I’d come bother you instead of sitting home scrolling other people’s turkeys.”
   The radio cheerfully informed all of us that the years start coming and they don’t stop coming.
     I slid his receipt back with one of the crumpled mini pecan pies. “On the house,” I said. “For your content. Tell your followers corporate forced me to be nice.”
   He stared at it. “Seriously?”
     “Look,” I said. “If you’re gonna have a lonely Thanksgiving, you might as well have it with sugar.”
   His mouth twitched. “Thanks,” he said, a lot quieter.
     He lifted his phone again, but the tone changed. “Shoutout to Cindy at Chill n’Fill,” he told the camera. “If you’re watching this and you got somewhere to be tonight, say thanks to the people who sold you snacks and gas so you could get there, all right? They got lives too.”
   He panned the phone across the store—the fluorescent lights, the tired coffee machine, the enormous polar bear standing guard outside—then gave me a two-finger salute and left.
   When the door shut and the bells stopped jangling, the song cut off mid-chorus, like the radio was satisfied with how the scene had gone.
     The announcer slid back in, voice all smooth mischief.
   “You’re still riding the waves with 96.6 W-D-A-R, Ray-dee-oh,” he said. “Tonight’s chaos is brought to you in part by Buzzard Dust Cigarette Company—’The only smoke strong enough to season the bird.’ Filterless flavor, memorable holidays.”
     A beat of static.
   “And by Skinny Dawg Pet Meds: did your dog bulk up on gravy drippings? Put the ‘pet’ back in pedometer with Skinny Dawg. Available at participating gas stations. Trust us, we’re… close enough.”
     The radio crackled, then added one more line, the voice lower, almost playful.
   “And remember: if that big polar bear out front ever winks twice in a row… turn around. Somebody behind you probably needs help.”
     I glanced instinctively at the front window.
   The bear winked once. Its “eye” — a Cheinco 1957 trash-can lid with neon zip-tied to it — clanked shut like a robot trying to be charming. The parking-lot lights flickered along, clearly in on the bit.
     The second wink didn’t come.
   Yet.
     Two small human tornadoes barreled through the door—one missing a couple of front teeth, one wearing sparkly boots and carrying a stuffed animal that looked like it had watched a few children grow up. A man in worn flannel followed them, holding the door open with one hand and his exhaustion with the other.
   “Okay,” he said, pointing. “One snack each. Not five. Not everything orange. One.”
     They nodded solemnly, then immediately scattered toward the aisles.
   He came to the counter and dropped a crumpled bill. “Ten on Pump 3, please,” he said. “And, uh, do you guys still do that free coffee thing if I spend enough?”
     “We do if I’m in a good mood,” I said, punching the numbers in. “Lucky for you, me and the radio are on speaking terms.”
   He huffed out something like a laugh. “Kids are with their mom till seven,” he said. “Her side does the big fancy dinner. I get ’em for the night. Our Thanksgiving is… this.”
     He gestured at the store—coolers and candy and humming lights.
   “You could do worse,” I said.
     “Last year we did worse,” he admitted. “Car broke down on the highway. We ate vending machine chips in a tow truck cab. Kids still talk about it like it was magical.”
   The radio shifted, fading in the soft, steady bassline of “Stand by Me” by Ben E. King.
     Of course.
   The boy reappeared with a hot dog and a bag of chips that rattled like victory.
     “That’s two,” his dad reminded him. “You got one mouth.”
   The kid stared at the hot dog, then the chips, then sighed like the weight of the world was on his narrow shoulders and put the chips back.
      The girl came up more slowly, holding a cupcake with orange frosting and a tiny plastic turkey stuck in the middle.
   “This your one?” I asked.
     She nodded and glanced at her dad. “We can share,” she said firmly. “It can be our Thanksgiving cake.”
   His throat worked like the words were stuck.
     I rang it all up. Ten for gas, a few bucks for food, a whole year’s worth of trying in the lines on his face.
   “You hit the Thanks-Gas-ing special,” I said. “Over fifteen and you get a free coffee and a mini pecan pie.”
     He started to protest. I slid a pie and a coffee across the counter before he finished.
   “You can tailgate it inside,” I added. “We’re not technically a restaurant, but I can look the other way.”
     He hesitated, then looked at the kids, who were already pressing their faces against the glass of the little two-seat table by the window, deciding who got which chair.
   “That okay?” he asked me quietly.
     I looked around at the empty store. “We’re fully booked,” I said solemnly, “but I think I can squeeze you in.”
   They set up a micro-feast—hot dog cut into bites, cupcake split into three, cocoa from the machine, coffee for dad, pecan pie slices like treaty offerings.
     Through the glass, Pump 3 sat there with their car attached, hose leaned into the tank like it was listening.
   When Ben E. King hit the chorus about not being afraid as long as someone stands by you, the little girl leaned her head on her dad’s arm.
     He looked up at the speaker like it had personally called him out, then over at me. Our eyes met. He mouthed, “Thank you.”
   I shrugged like my chest didn’t feel too tight for the size of the store.
     The song faded. The announcer came back.
   “That was Ben E. King keepin’ you company,” he said, voice softer. “If your table’s a little smaller than you pictured this year, that doesn’t mean it ain’t a table. You’re still tuned to 96.6 W-D-A-R, Ray-dee-ohhh—brought to you tonight by Goodbeer Tires. When life goes flat, we pump you back … up, that is. Now giving away free turkey basters with every rotation. Don’t ask why.”
     I laughed out loud. The radio hissed, smug.

—

   Around eight, the door swung open and a man I recognized immediately bee-lined straight for the back cooler like a bloodhound following a scent.
     Tall, wiry, jittery in a way that wasn’t just caffeine.
   “Cindy!” he called. “You still running that ‘Buy 2 expired energy drinks, get 1 free’ deal?”
     “We have never run that deal,” I said, as he slapped three suspiciously dusty cans on the counter. “You invented that deal in your mind.”
   He grinned, unabashed. “Yeah, but it’s in my heart, and isn’t that what Thanksgiving’s all about?”
   The radio chose that exact moment to blast the opening of “Eye of the Tiger” by Survivor—that stalking guitar line filling the air.
     Of course it would, why not? It wouldn’t play anything off key.
   He flexed a skinny arm. “See? The sentient radio believes in me.”
     “The sentient radio believes in liability waivers,” I said, scanning the cans. “You know these are out of date.”
   He squinted at the expiration label. “Best by, not best on. That’s a guideline.”
     “Your kidneys are gonna file a complaint.”
   He leaned conspiratorially on the counter. “You working all night?”
     “Yeah.”
   “Then sell me the heart-attack juice,” he said. “I’m doing a double at the plant. If I make it through the shift without falling into a machine, I’ll come back tomorrow and buy something that grew in the ground as a thank-you. Maybe. Probably.”
     I sighed and took his money. “Fine. But if you see the polar bear start dancing, sit down and drink some water.”
   He saluted me with one of the cans. “Happy Thanks-Gas-ing, Cindy.”
     As he walked out, he gave Pump 3 a little nod, like it was an old war buddy.
   The radio rode Eye of the Tiger out to the chorus, then cut clean to static, satisfied.
     The announcer returned, smooth as butter over gravel.
   “This portion of thankful chaos brought to you by Cokehead Bright Ideas,” he said. “Screw in a Cokehead bulb and get inspiration so strong you’ll forget you burned the rolls. Cokehead—because we can’t use the drink.”
     A crackle of static.
   “And by Buzzard Roost Community College—spring registration now open. We teach welding, nursing, and the ancient art of showing up. Night classes available. Financial aid is a phone call and a prayer. Because somebody’s gotta keep shooting for the stars, and it might as well be you.”
     Another beat.
   “You’re still with us on 96.6 W-D-A-R, Ray-dee-ohhhhh. Don’t go anywhere. We got more songs, more feelings, and at least one person in a turkey costume headed your way.”
   A little after that, the bell jingled and a man in a full-body turkey costume trudged in, feathers drooping, beak askew.
     He grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen and three 5-hour energy drinks.
   Behind him, the radio slammed into “Highway to Hell” by AC/DC like it had been waiting all night for this exact moment.
     I didn’t even try to pretend that wasn’t funny.
   “Lose a bet?” I asked, ringing him up.
     “Children’s ministry,” he groaned. “Fifteen toddlers. One puppet. I think I saw God at one point, and He looked tired.”
   “You get hazard pay for that?”
     “I get a free plate I’m too exhausted to chew,” he said. “And possibly a pinched nerve.”
   I slid his change and a mini pecan pie across. “On the house,” I said. “For services rendered to the next generation.”
     He stared at the pie. “For real?”
   “Look, anybody who dresses like poultry so kids can yell Bible verses at them deserves sugar.”
     He clutched the pie to his chest like a medal and limped back out into the night, AC/DC escorting him to the parking lot.
   The song cut abruptly once he was in his car, like the radio had gotten the laugh it wanted.

—

   Somewhere around nine, the night changed keys.
     The bell jingled and brought in a girl in a dark green dress, the kind you wear because somebody said “We’ll be taking family photos.” Her eyeliner was smeared, her mascara had staged a walkout, and her hands shook as she grabbed a small bottle of cheap white wine from the cooler and a frozen breakfast sandwich from the chest.
   She dropped them on the counter like evidence.
     “Hey,” I said, gentler. “How’s your Thanksgiving going?”
   She let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a choke. “Oh, you know. Ten out of ten, would recommend, five stars on all streaming platforms.”
     “Ah,” I said. “So… great.”
   She sniffed. “Sorry. I’m not usually the ‘crying in a gas station’ type.”
     “Nobody is,” I said. “Until they are.”
   The radio, quietly sinister, shifted from nothing into the slow, aching intro of “A Change Is Gonna Come” by Sam Cooke.
     Her shoulders tightened like she’d been physically tapped.
   “You buying gas too?” I asked. “Or just emotional support groceries?”
     She hesitated. “I just parked,” she said. “Pump 3. I can move if—”
   “Pump 3 is emotionally available tonight,” I said. “No time limit on existential crises.”
     That got a tiny real smile.
   She rubbed her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. “We had The Talk,” she said. “My family. About… everything.” She waved a vague hand. “Life choices. Opinions. Stuff they only bring up when there’s a captive audience and a big bird on the table.”
     “Oof,” I said. “The High Holy Holiday of Ambush Conversations.”
   “Yeah.” She stared at her own reflection in the lottery glass. “I said some things I meant but shouldn’t have said like that. My mom said some things she definitely meant. My uncle did his whole ‘I’m just asking questions’ routine. I grabbed my keys when somebody mentioned politics, and here we are.”
     Sam Cooke’s voice climbed a little, that hopeful ache threading through the cracks.
   “You got somewhere else to go?” I asked.
     “Yeah,” she said. “My apartment. My roommate made a ‘sad girl charcuterie board’ and sent me a pic. But I needed a… I don’t know. Buffer zone. Somewhere that didn’t smell like cranberry and tension.”
   “Well,” I said, “welcome to Cranberry-Free Tension.”
     She huffed out one almost-laugh.
   I rang up her stuff, then slid a styrofoam cup toward her. “Hot chocolate,” I said. “House policy. Tears after six p.m. earn cocoa.”
     She blinked hard. “You really…?”
   “Yeah,” I said. “It’s in the manual. Page four.”
     She took the cup like it might evaporate.
   “What if I ruined it?” she asked, voice small. “Like… this Thanksgiving. All of them. What if this was the one they remember as ‘the year she snapped’?”
     “If they love you,” I said, “this is just the year you finally said the stuff your stomach’s been saying for five Thanksgivings in a row. They’ll get over the volume. Eventually.”
   “And if they don’t?”
     “Then they should’ve cooked better,” I said. “Nobody tells the truth on juicy turkey.”
   That pulled an actual laugh, weak but real.
     She wiped her eyes again and picked up the wine, the sandwich, the cup, the pie I slid quietly onto the pile.
   “I can’t—”
     “You can,” I said. “Consider it reparations from the universe.”
   “Thank you,” she whispered.
     As she left, she paused by the glass and looked up at the polar bear. The construction paper turkey on his chest flapped wildly in the wind.
   “Happy Thanksgiving, big guy,” she said softly, then headed back to Pump 3 and out into the dark.
     Sam Cooke sang about things being rough for a long time but changing someday, and for a second the store felt like it was breathing with him.

—

   The hours slid by in a series of small, strange moments.
     Someone in scrubs buying frozen pizza and wine for their “Thanksgiving rain check.”
   A guy in a reflective vest getting coffee before a night road crew shift, telling me about the pothole on Slaughter Pen Road that could swallow a Volkswagen.
     A couple on a first date stopping for gum and awkward small talk, the guy nervously asking if we sold flowers. (We did not. I pointed him toward the single wilted carnation someone had left in a Red Bull can on the shelf. He did not buy it.)
   Pump 3 kept pulling the outliers, though. The stragglers. The in-betweens.
     Every time I glanced out the window, someone was standing there under the lights, filling their tank, staring up at the enormous polar bear like it might have answers.
   The radio played “Don’t Stop Believin’” for a trucker who sang along off-key.
     It played “Landslide” for a woman who sat in her car at Pump 3 for ten minutes after her tank was full, just staring at her phone.
   It played “September” by Earth, Wind & Fire for absolutely no reason at all, and I let it, because why not.
     Around eleven, the announcer came back one more time, warm and steady.
   “You’re still here with us on 96.6 W-D-A-R, Ray-dee-ohhhhhh,” he said. “This last stretch of gratitude brought to you by Thankless Towing—we’ll get you home even if home doesn’t want you there. Twenty-four-seven service. We’ve seen worse than your Thanksgiving.”
     A soft crackle.
   “And one more reminder, just in case: if that big polar bear out front winks twice in a row… turn around. Somebody behind you might need you to stay.”
     I looked up sharply at the window.
   The bear’s neon eye flickered.
     Once.
   I held my breath.
     Twice.
   The second wink held just a beat longer than it should have.
     I turned.
   Behind me, reflected in the glass of the lottery case, was my own tired face—flour from the pie still on my fingers, hair pulled back in a ponytail that had given up hours ago, eyes that had seen too many lonely people tonight to pretend I wasn’t one of them.
     Oh.
   The radio hissed softly, like it was saying, Yeah. You.
     I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
   “Okay,” I said quietly. “Okay.”

—

   By the time we hit eleven-forty-five, the lot had finally gone still. No cars. No footsteps. Just the hum of the coolers and the soft static breathing of the radio.
     I did the end-of-night dance: wiped the counter rings, counted the drawer, restocked gum, pretended the bathroom hadn’t seen the apocalypse.
   The pie waited patiently behind me.
     “Wow,” I told it. “You made it this far.”
   The radio clicked, and the announcer came on one last time, his voice softer than it had been all night.

“To those of you still listening at the edges,” he said, “especially if you’re behind a counter, behind a wheel, or behind on your sleep—this one’s for you.”

   The first gentle notes of “What a Wonderful World” by Louis Armstrong rolled out, scratchy, like it was playing off a record older than half the people driving past.
     I took the pie down, peeled back the foil, and sat on the little stool by the front window—the one with a direct line of sight to Pump 3 and the polar bear.
   The first bite tasted like cinnamon, butter, and effort. Like being remembered by someone who didn’t learn your name but saw your job.
     My eyes stung. I let them.
   Outside, the parking lot lights buzzed. Pump 3’s digital display glowed zeroes. The bear’s scarf flapped lazily in the breeze.
     Louis Armstrong rasped about trees of green and red roses too, and for once I didn’t roll my eyes at him.
   Sometimes the world is terrible and on fire.
     Sometimes it’s just… this. Warm pie on a plastic stool, tired feet, a quiet store, the memory of a grandma, a dad and his kids, a girl in a green dress, a meme teen, an energy drink addict, a man in a turkey suit, and a whole line of people who’d used Pump 3 as a halfway house between where they were and where they were headed.
   The announcer let the song run almost all the way out before he spoke again, voice barely above the static.

“From all of us here at 96.6 W-D-A-R, Ray-dee-ohhhh,” he said, “to all of you holding down the quiet corners—gobble ’til you wobble if you can. And if you can’t, just know somebody out here is thankful you’re keeping the lights on. Goodnight, Buzzard Roost. Happy Thanksgiving.”

   The song finished its last note and faded into a gentle hiss.
     I finished my slice of pie and felt… not full, exactly.
   But not empty either.

—

   Out front, a sudden gust of wind lifted the aluminum foiled cardboard turkey right off the polar bear’s chest. The tape finally gave up, and the little bird spun once in the air, then drifted down.
     It landed face-up at the base of Pump 3.
   I laughed, alone in the store. “Yeah,” I said. “That tracks.”
     The bear’s neon eye flickered.
   Once.
     Twice.
   The second wink went a little longer than it should have—not a warning this time, but something gentler. Like approval. Like “you did good.”
     Behind me, the radio gave a soft, satisfied crackle.

—

   Another night at Chill n’Fill. Another holiday that didn’t look anything like the commercials. Another reminder that not everybody gets a perfect table—but sometimes, if you’re lucky, you get a plastic stool, a warm slice of pie from a stranger, and a gas pump that caught all the people who didn’t have anywhere else to land.
     I flipped the No Smoking sign to CLOSED, turned off the main lights, and let the store shrink into its softer version—cooler glow, coffee machine halo, radio light blinking.
   Pump 3 kept its quiet vigil as I headed to the back to clock out.
     On impulse, I grabbed a sticky note and a pen, scribbled quick, and stuck it to the register for Bob.

Note to Bob: 
Thanks-Gas-ing didn’t completely suck. 
—C 
P.S. That giant bear lost its turkey.

   I pulled on my jacket, stepped out into the cold, and locked the door behind me.
     “Happy Thanksgiving,” I told the bear, the radio, Pump 3, and whoever else was listening.
   The night didn’t answer, exactly.
     But as I walked to my car, the radio inside the closed store popped once more, like a final quiet amen.
   And the polar bear’s eye gave one last robotic wink.

END

Author’s Note:  Not everyone gets a picture-perfect holiday. Some people end up in parking lots, under flickering lights, eating pie from a gas station. And sometimes? That’s exactly where the most human moments happen. Here’s to the folks at the small tables, the late shifts, the Pump #3 crowd — you matter more than you know.
Happy Thanksgiving!!