I'll Check it When I Damn Well Feel Like it.

December 23, 2008

Dear "Check Oil" Light,

I've noticed you've been around more lately. Things never used to be this way. I remember a time when you would only come around once or twice a year. Now it seems you're here everyday.

I understand your concern and I appreciate your attention to detail, but I'm writing to let you know that I have things completely under control.

I know that I am taking a risk by driving with you around, but it is a risk that I will just have to live with. You see, it is quite out of the question that I stop. The people of Duluth need their burritos and you need to cooperate with me on this.

So, with this letter, I am officially asking you to leave. If you fail to comply, I will be forced to cover you with a little piece of electrical tape.

I hope it won't come to that.

Thank you,

Dave

Could I Have the Snow Salsa on the Side?

It's been three years since I last drove in winter weather. I feel that amount of time gave me the opportunity to develop the sense of fear and respect that this kind of driving deserves. It now scares the hell out of me.

So I asked myself, "How can I overcome this newly self-assigned fear?"

I answered myself thus: "I'll get a job that involves driving constantly."

The people living on the terrifyingly steep streets of Duluth need their burritos- especially during snow storms.

On Sunday, it snowed most of the day. I would give you an estimate of inches, but I'm not good at that sort of thing (making small talk in Minnesota at this time of year almost impossible for me).

On Monday I drove to work at 10:45 am. I almost lost it on the first curve, but I turned into the skid and pumped the brakes and whatnot and regained control. For the rest of the trip I built up what could be defined as a tenative confidence. Then when I tried to park in front of the restaurant, the car refused to stop and I almost slid into the back end of a truck. I went into the Burrito Union, clocked in, and quietly had an anxiety attack.

Luckily the deliveries were few and far between and I was able to deliver burritos (at about the pace of a Zamboni machine).

So I'm facing my fear of winter driving and it's teaching me a valuable lesson. Maybe next I'll go bungee jumping or I'll buy a pet spider; or maybe I'll just eat a granola bar and watch another season of "Aquateen Hunger Force."

I Begin a Delivery Job With a $300 Car (two-thirds paid off)

I remember sitting on the airplane on the way home from Zambia and thinking that my life would begin again. I guess I had taken on a bit of the Zambian viewpoint that America is a sort of material paradise and that you are simply handed money when you step off the plane.

For those of you that haven't heard, I no longer work at the Southside Mini Mart. My gas station anecdotes from here on out will have to be from the vantage point of a customer. I am not sad about this at all.

I'm going to keep the name "Cigarettes and Gasoline" because it's catchier than "Commit Lozenges and Ethanol."

I have a new job. I deliver food for a communist-themed burrito joint in Duluth, Minnesota. I know what you're thinking: no blogging material there.

It will be tough, but I'll try to manage.

So I begin a new chapter in Cigarettes and Gasoline. I'm calling it, "I Want A Burrito Right Now- I Want It Perfect And I'm Not Leaving My House For It."

Go ahead and visit www.burritounion.com

Peanut Butter Covered Cherubs

Occasionally I would take time away from my job at the Southside Mini Mart to actually use my teaching degree. I'm not a full-time teacher anywhere- mostly because I don't live anywhere full-time- so I substitute teach.

So far, I've subbed for band, shop, first grade, and preschool. Band is obviously my favorite because I've been trained to teach band. First grade was a long day because it was spur of the moment and because first graders are starting to learn to push the limits of authority. I will never sub for shop again if I can help it. We couldn't use the machines, so I had to try to tell a bunch of high school students that they needed to spend the hour sweeping. Even though I had promised I wouldn't, I actually broke out the perennial "'cause I said so."

Preschool was a lot of fun. Preschoolers still cry when they have to leave home for the day and they are usually just looking for someone to help them get through it. Most of the time, that's also what I'm looking for.

We ate apple slices with peanut butter and were covered in peanut butter. Then we painted and we were covered in paint. When we were cleaned up, we sat on a rug and read books together. The tooth brushing was a major accomplishment on the day.

I sat with a group of little boys at one point and we played with little plastic cows in a toy barn. We had a long conversation about agriculture that helped me to learn a lot about the "big" cows and "little" cows.

There was one little boy with a rat tail. He was wearing a T-shirt that said, "Save gas, fart in a jar."

Don't worry little man, I thought, someday you'll be in charge of your own appearance.

Overt Testicle Reference

An elderly woman came into the Mini Mart last night and asked me to cut for her a pound of deli ham. I took out the ham and began to slice. She asked for very thick slices, which usually makes it incredibly hard to slice the meat into an exact weight. I began to slice and lay the pieces of ham on the scale. After seven slices or so, the scale read exactly one pound.
At this point, I intended to say, “hey, right on the nose!” I meant, of course, that we had hit the weight “right on the nose.” I said, instead, “hey, right on the nuts!”
The phrase came out of my mouth and sort of hung there like a puff of smoke. I quickly tried to justify it in my mind. It’s a common figure of speech, I said to myself. It doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the male reproductive organs.
But after thinking about it during the silence that ensued following my little “figure of speech,” I realized that there was no other way to look at it. I had made a reference to testicles while slicing lunch meat for a sweet old lady.
She knew what I meant, I knew what I meant and there was no getting around it: I had hit it on the nuts.

Pigeon Dialogue

“There’s a pigeon outside.”
“I’ve seen.”
“It’s sitting on the ice cooler.”
“Uh-huh.”

Pause during which nothing is accomplished.

“It keeps swooping at the people in the parking lot.”
“‘Swooping’, you say?”

Second pause.

“Should we call someone?”
“Whom shall we call?”
“Animal Control?”

Smug laughter on the part of the former.

“What’s so funny?”
“There is no Animal Control.”
“Oh… well what should we do then?”
“We have only to wait… and to watch.”

Both parties turn toward the window as a winged shadow passes over their rapt faces.

Kids In Post-Apocalyptic America Don't Get Chicken Wings

Why do I read at work? Because working at a gas station can be extremely boring.

It's not all boring- just the first five hours or so. After that, I am busy emptying garbage, dumping coffee that nobody drank down the drain, and standing in front of the pop cooler in awe of the amount of Mountain Dew gone after only five hours.

Before the last two hours, I need something to pass the time. I like to put on the MPR classical music station and sit down on the stool behind the counter with a good book. I've tried several different genres, but I lean toward the post-apocalyptic. I enjoyed The Road by Cormac McCarthy at work. I would be completely absorbed in the tale of a father and son trying to find the coast before they starve to death or are eaten by roving bands of cannibals when someone would interrupt me by coming to the counter. In that situation, I'm usually resentful... until I remember that the person is only asking me to do what I actually get paid for.

I am pulled abruptly from my imagined world of desolation, danger and famine so that I can sell a big box of frozen chicken wings to an anxious-looking, perspiring man in sweatpants.

Maybe I'll start reading more self-help books.

Ode to Dissatisfaction

You'd better have my brand today,

or I don't know what I'll do.

I'll whine and cry and point my finger;

blaming only you.

I'll stomp around the store and scream.

I'll knock things off the shelves.

And, of course, my kids will be

throwing tantrums for themselves.

They're angry now because you say

you won't allow in pets,

and I'm pissed off 'cause you don't have

my brand of cigarettes.

The other stores that I go to,

they have the things I need

and customer service that has no peer

when it comes to speed.

But when I come into this store,

I see your dopey face.

I know to hope for more than correct change

would simply be a waste.

So I'll be sure to tell your boss

you couldn't please today,

and she will know it's all your fault

when I go, instead, to Holiday.

Davidicus, Master of the Dave Clones

The other day, I came to work and found my boss trying desperately to wrap up a busy day. She said to me that there needed to be more of her. That made me wonder what I would do with more of me to work at the Mini Mart.

Dave #2 would definitely be the lunch meat specialist. Dave #3 would stock pop the whole night. That would leave me with the register. This team would be ideal.

A person enters the Mini Mart where they choose to buy ten bottles of Mr. Pibb because they are buy one, get one free. Normally, I would be frustrated. Not any more. “Dave #3,” I’d yell, “help this gentlemen carry his pop and restock when you’re done. I want that cooler completely full all night.”
“Right away, Master Dave.”
The man wouldn’t be satisfied, though. He would realize that he needs three pounds of summer sausage and four pounds of colby jack sliced. Instead of my usual sub-breath curses, I would simply say, “Dave #2- three LB’s SS and four o’ the cojack.”
Dave #2 would wink and throw a thumb’s up in the air with his bandaged, four-fingered hand. I would know that the order was as good as done.

I would take the money, put it in the till and the three of us would meet in the center for a leaping, group high-five.

It would go on like this until the end of the evening. There would be no need to stay late, because everything could easily be finished early by the three of us.

But then, Dave #3 would say something like, “Hey, we did a great job tonight.”
“Yeah,” Dave #2 would chime in, “why don’t we lock up and go grab a couple of beers.”
“Well,” I would say, frowning, “the thing is this: the three of us only make a combined $7.50 an hour because we’re technically the same person.” Then I would ask Dave #2 and Dave #3 to go and check to see if I left the light on in the milk cooler. When they were out of sight, I would lock the door and then go to the bar for a beer.

It would be sweet.

Dave, You Smell More Like Coconut Than Usual

The first thing that I noticed (in the retail world) when I got back from Zambia was the wide variety of things out there for American consumers to choose from. For the past two years I had, for the most part, two pop choices: cola or orange. Now when I go to a store, I can have my cola in diet, caffeine free, caffeine free diet, cherry, wild cherry, diet cherry, diet wild cherry, vanilla, lemon, diet vanilla, diet lemon or chocolate. With all of these choices, why would I ever drink plain cola? And another thing: what the hell happened to Crystal Pepsi? I for one miss it.

Then there's the candy bars. The candy bars that didn't have caramel in them before do now. There are also peanut butter versions of quite a few of the old favorites; not to mention cookies and cream; or almonds; or marshmallows; or graham crackers; or nougat; or taurine.

Americans have more choices than ever and more reason to stand, befuddled, in the candy isle of the Mini Mart.

Now I feel like I should speak out against this. I should make some sort of digital stand. But the truth is, I dig it. I'm proud to live in a country where I can eat four different flavored Snicker's bars in one day and wash them down with a diet-caffeine free-wild cherry-vanilla Dr. Pepper. God Bless America.

In fact, I'm thinking of applying this mentality to my personal life. Maybe people are getting a little tired of Original Dave. Maybe I need to spice it up a bit. It could even be a limited time thing. Just a little boost to the brand name to get people looking my way again. I've tried Diet Dave, and it left me wanting. So maybe I'll just add more peanut butter.

Questions and Answers

Questions I can’t answer:
“Does this store carry baby spoons?”
“Which one of these lotto tickets is the big winner?”
“What does this unmarked sucker cost?”
“Why is it so friggin’ hot in here?”
“What on earth is that smell?”
"What's the Iowa Loaf lunch meat made out of?"

Answers I can’t give:
“I don’t know why the gas pump isn’t working. Maybe it’s because you’re stupid.”
“No, I’m sorry- I can’t give you any cigarettes on account of your hacking cough.”
“Sure I’ll slice the meat thinner. Then it will be easier for you to shove it up you’re a**.”
“No there aren’t any more buy one, get one Marlboros. Please go away.”
“I think I know your brother. Have I heard about his new job? Well, the problem is, I just don’t care.”
“I don’t know how many gummi worms you can buy for $.63, and I refuse to sell any to you until you figure it out on your own.”

What Are You Beeping About?

There are a number of things that beep and or tweet in the Mini Mart. The coffee brewer beeps twice when it's done. The door beeps thrice when a customer enters. The gas pump monitor beeps when someone has finished pumping. It tweets repeatedly when I fail to authorize a previous pump before a new customer tries to pump. The cash register chirps every time I hit the right button. If I happen to hit the wrong button (which could be any of the buttons at any given time), it seems to scream at me. It's not an enraged scream. It's not even that loud. It's just incessant, like a battalion of irritated mosquitoes humming a unison pitch in their own tiny double forte. Most of the time I can stop the machine from doing this without completely ruining the transaction. Sometimes, I just have to start over.

I've gotten used to most of these sounds. I don't even really hear them anymore. Last night, however, the computer that monitors the fuel tanks started to go off. It was a high-pitched whine that went off and turned on at irregular intervals. It could be heard all over the store. I was told to "just put up with it."

At first I did "just put up with it." I went about my regular routine. I stocked pop. I Windexed every glass surface I could find. I drew the illustration for this blog entry. After a while though, I noticed a splitting head ache that was creeping up on me. I started to drop things. After six hours I was irritable. I told customers to "count their own damn change."

"Oh alright," they conceded, "say, what's that sound?" In response, I only giggled maniacally while wiping the counter in front of them and staring them directly in the eye. They paid for their handful of Tootsie Rolls and left.

By 10:20, I wasn't even sure of my name anymore. I locked the outside ice coolers and went to my car. I turned the ignition and a Barenaked Ladies song was on the radio. I wondered what they were so damn happy about.

I opened the window and tuned into a talk radio station.

10 Things To Do Before I Leave The Mini Mart

1. Set a velvet rope across the entrance and only let in those I deem "hip" enough.

2. Microwave 4 randomly selected items in their original wrapping for 2 minutes in the the Deli Express microwave.

3. Spend a night in the milk cooler.

4. Start a socialist movement using Gummi Worms to entice local people to join.

5. Perform an adaptation of The Godfather Part III for the security cameras with myself as Vincent Mancini.

6. Convince an Amishman that he needs to buy a motorcycle.

7. Fit 20 wrapped Andes mints in my mouth and spend my final shift quietly seperating chocolate from wrapper.

8. Create a life-size statue of Will Smith using only paper clips and leave it in the boss's chair after a week of assuring her that I had found a suitable replacement for myself.

9. Spend a shift insisting that each customer that has correct change give me a high-five.

10. Hide a tape-player in the wall that will play a tape of me saying simply, "buy more beef jerky" every 2 hours.

The Price of Fudgsicles

Night was just falling when the man with the one eye stepped into the Southside Mini Mart. His boots shook the cigarette racks as he passed the counter. A sidelong glance was thrown my way with his one good eye. He made his way to the back of the store brushing the one remaining bag of pork rinds as he passed. The bag shook for a moment before tumbling to the floor. My eyes narrowed.

From the front of the store I could hear the ice cream cooler being opened. Soundlessly I approached the one eyed man. Still he turned and half met my gaze. The corner of his mouth curled and he spat as he talked. “How much are the fudgsicles?”

My nerves fired, but I tried to keep calm. “I think they are $1.09.”
He laughed.
“No fudgsicle costs that much.”
“You’re right. Maybe they’re $.69.”
“They are $.50,” he growled.
“I’m sure they aren’t $.50,” I growled back.
“Well, I’ve been coming here for over ten years, and you…” He let the sentence hang in the room.
“I have an ice cream list,” I said flatly, “and nothing on that list can be bought for $.50.”

The one-eyed man mumbled something, but let his gaze fall from mine. He new he was beaten. He turned and walked toward the door. His step shook the cigarettes as he approached the front of the store. “Hold on,” I yelled after him without turning from the ice cream coolers. He stopped at the door.

“Pick up those Pork Rinds.”

The Search for the Fountain of Pop

In some places, people refer to carbonated beverages as "soda." In the southern part of the US, it is, across the board, known as "coke"- which confuses me (and the rest of the northern part of the US). In Zambia, carbonated beverages are called "softies." At the Southside Mini Mart, we call them "pop."

The other night I decided (in spite of a full-fledged tornado watch) to record all of the pop that I sold during my shift. I was hoping for some startling statistic. I was hoping to be able to blog something like, "I sold enough pop in one shift to fill an Olympic-sized swimming pool," or, at the very least, enough to float me around a little bit.

Unfortunately, I only sold 36 twenty ounce bottles, 16 twelve packs, 9 cans, 7 one-litres, 3 two-litres, and a single twenty-two ounce cup of fountain pop. That comes out to around 27 gallons of pop. That's still pretty good considering the tornado watch. It will take more than a twister to get the good people of Staples to stop drinking gallons of Coke (the brand), Pepsi, and Mr. Pibb.

So I don't have any startling statistics for you this time. Twenty-seven gallons won't float me anywhere. But it would certainly get my feet wet.

Shoe Boxes

Last night around 6:00, I took one of my blindingly fast pee breaks. When I emerged from the bathroom, there was a man standing at the counter with wild hair and a fist full of dollar bills. On his left foot, he was wearing the empty box from a twelve pack of Pepsi, and on his right foot, the empty box from a twelve pack of Budweiser.

I sighed audibly while washing my hands. There is a general level of craziness at the Mini Mart, and now it seemed that the crazy was going to reach whole new levels.

A few things ran through my mind as I approached the counter. Would I have to call the cops? Maybe I would have to forcibly remove this man. If I have to forcibly remove someone, do I get the rest of the night off? It seems only fair.

"Can I help you?"

When the man spoke, he seemed to be fairly sane. But he was drunk. He was real drunk. This made me feel a little better. I can understand drunk. I've been drunk. This is easier to relate to than just plain crazy. Now I could get him what he needed and get him on his way. No need to be authoritarian.

The man asked for Pall Mall's and I gave them to him. He then told me that he had just returned from Iraq. He was still getting used to the subtleties of living in the states. Subtleties like having to wear shoes in public. He had been removed from the bar in town already, but had found a solution to the shoe problem and was confident that he would have no further problems.

He came around the counter and shook my hand. I told him that I had been in Africa and he said he had friends who had been in Morocco learning how to "control people without, you know, yak yak yak [violence]." I had made a friend.

At that point, a horn sounded outside. My new friend stuck his head out the door and screamed something ridiculously offensive that made me blush, I'm sure. He used a racial slur very loudly and yelled that he was having a conversation and that they could kindly "go f*** [themselves]." I wondered again if I would have to call the police, but looked out the door to find that the ones outside were his ride. He shook my hand again and I watched as he shuffled out the door and into the waiting truck.

I know not where he went from there, but I'm sure they couldn't throw him out for not having shoes. They might be able to get him for screaming obscenities, however.

Ode to My Nicotine Angel

You come in every night

to buy Marb Lights and Mountain Dew.

I count the change and do my best

not to stare at you.

You browse and shop

around the store,

but buy pop and cigarettes

and nothing more.

I long to say something smooth

to make you notice this bashful clerk.

But I simply open my drawer-

fumbling pennies like a jerk.

Everyday I hope you'll leave a sign

to show me that you care:

a perfumed white glove; a silken scarf;

or a single strand of hair.

But you just take a drink of Dew

and open up your pack.

And what have I until the time

when you come back?

What means are there to sooth

this lovesick turmoil?

A ball of Marlboro cellophane,

and that little piece of foil.

I Got Mustard from my Corn Dog on my Cumber Bun

Last week I didn't work. I went to a wedding in Bogota, Colombia. My beautiful and wonderful Colombian friend from college married a beautiful and wonderful man from Minnesota. I briefly had the urge (as I do at most weddings where beautiful people my age are coming together) to drink too much wine and to become the kind of character that John Cusack would play in a movie. I'm not even jealous- it just seemed like this character should be present. But I figured that the parents wouldn't appreciate my screaming at the bride's bedroom window while standing in the rain, so I just enjoyed the hors d'ouvres.

The wedding was swank. I even wore a tuxedo- and I wasn't even in the wedding. I went to cocktail parties and mingled. I tried my best to not spill things on myself and I almost succeeded. I caught myself before asking for ketchup with the fillet mignon. I left my digital camera in Zambia and I managed to keep the Kodak "Fun Saver" hidden through the first two or three glasses of wine. Then my urge to record the event won out over my embarrassment.

So I went from the African bush to a central Minnesota convenience store to a penthouse cocktail party in South America and now I'm back to the Southside Mini Mart. I was actually a little dizzy while stocking pop last night. But I made it through and the Mini Mart didn't burn down. In a week or so I will be firmly back home.

The mignon was good, but so was that last bag of pork rinds. I even ate them with ketchup.

Last of a Rind

Walter is the last of his kind. He comes from a small town in Wisconsin. No one knows exactly when he was born, but his bag says that he is best if used before July 11, 2008. He has seen many of his friends disappear; watching them as they were ripped from the strip of cardboard to which they were all stapled.
The future is uncertain for Walter. He has been alone for weeks and it is impossible to predict who will walk through the door to rip him too from his home. Most people simply walk by so that they can find a bag of Doritos or Fritos or Pringles. Those that love strips of deep fried pork fat are rare.
But they are out there. It's only a matter of time now.

Some would call Walter old fashioned. But he has never let that get in the way of his goals. He knows he has a space to fill in the snack world. He knows he must do his part for his kind. To simply be cast out with the Mini Mart trash would be dishonorable.
And there's one thing that keeps him going day in and day out. Walter has a secret weapon. Something about Walter's make-up is unique and it is clearly marked there on his bag:

Walter has zero net carbs.

I Bet a 2 for $8.29 Roll of Copenhagen Would Turn That Frown Upside Down

I’ve noticed lately that the people who come in to the Southside Mini Mart are not in the best mood. So I decided to write this short letter to be posted at the register:

Dear Mr. or Mrs. Grumpy Pants,

I see that you are sad today. I wonder what is bothering you. I wonder if it is the price of gas or the flooding in Iowa. Maybe it’s the sub-prime mortgage crisis. I know all of these things are weighing heavy on my mind.

I want to let you know that worrying about these things won’t help. It also won’t help to blame me- the clerk. As much as I would like to get my slice of the oil company pie, I don’t. Turns out I get the same $7.00 an hour no matter what the price of gas. When the credit card machine says your card doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. And I’m not going to bag your groceries- that just isn’t my scene.

I’ll put all those petty things aside, however, because I know that you are just transferring your anger. I know you’re really worried about the bigger picture; about the state of our world. And I have just the things:

Worried about the price of corn because of Midwest flooding? Stop it! We have Doritos for $3.19.

Worried about Bear Stearns? Forget it! Even those hedge fund managers could afford our 3 for $.99 Butterfingers.

Sub-prime mortgage crisis? Not even a crisis anymore. Just roll down the windows of the car you’re living in and smoke some of our buy 2 get 1 free Marb lights.

So there you have it. Not so bad, huh?
Keep smiling… I’m here for you.

Yours faithfully,
Dave

PICKLES... it's about time!

I do try to make this blog entertaining. I try to find things about working at a convenience store that might make people laugh. Sometimes I have to search and sometimes funny things are right there on the surface. I feel as though the subject of this entry was simply handed to me. I’m not sure there’s anything I need to do to this: the Southside Mini Mart now has individually wrapped pickles in a bucket on the counter next to the register.

Now, I will admit that I have been away from America for a while. Maybe it’s just me who thinks that a pickle in a bag of its own juice next to the beef jerky is strange. Perhaps it’s a common thing now- like Ipods or energy drinks. Still I thought it would be worth mentioning.

I’ve noticed two distinct reactions to the pickles: disgust or glee. People seem to react in extremes. No one says, “hmm… a pickle… whaddayaknow.” They usually say, “oh my God, that’s disgusting,” or “PICKLES… it’s about time!” I tend to side with the former. I’m not a pickle fan to begin with, and the thought of one in a bag in a bucket on the counter is a little revolting to me.

Even so, I hope for nothing but the best for the pickle-to-go. I would like to see it catch on (if it hasn’t already). Grabbing a pickle has got to be better than grabbing a big box of Nerds. Maybe this is the start of something big.

Just don’t let your kid squeeze the pickle bag. There’s a lot of juice in there.

Excerpt from Dave's Inner-Monologue

My, but the store is warm tonight. The door has beeped: three meek chirps signaling my entrance. Hello, Mabel. How was your shift? Has the store been busy? You were hoping that I would come in early. You need a bathroom break. Well, rest easy my friend. You’re deliverance is here.

The stool behind the register is open. I think I shall sit and ponder.
Oh, sweet Mini Mart! Oh place of my employment- with your erratic central air and walls covered in many-holed display board! You have so many things, and yet there is room for more. Gas and groceries and cigarettes and 3.2 beers!

And what would the good citizens from the south side of Staples, Minnesota do without you, Mini Mart? Where would they go when the Old Gold’s run out? Where would they take their kids to pay for handfuls of gummy worms with pennies and nickels? Where would they go to buy a 12 pack of beer that will get them kind of drunk? Across the tracks? I think not. You are their bastion; their sanctuary; their shining citadel on this side of the tracks.

Hello, Duane. How are you my good man? Let me ring you up and send you on your way so that you may enjoy this beautiful day. What do you have? A twelve pack of Mountain Dew and seven king size Twix bars. A king’s feast, for sure. What’s that? No, I’m afraid you can’t pay for the Kools with food stamps. I know it’s not fair. Of course you can pay with dimes. I am here all night. Do you need a little bag?

Welcome all in the midst of a nicotine fit! Welcome all in need of a giant can of something to keep them awake for the last twenty miles of driving! Welcome the thirsty, the hungry, and those who really need to pee! Welcome all! I’ll be here.

I’ll be here on this stool for the next seven hours.

In Which I Try a 5 Hour Energy Drink in the Name of Science; Have a Brief Out-of-body Experience

The Southside Mini Mart sells a variety of energy drinks. Most of them come in tall-boy cans decorated to evoke images of great clawed beasts, roaring sports car engines and tight-trousered hair band lead guitarists.

Anyone can buy these giant cans of energy. I’ve seen twelve year old kids walk to the counter and set down a huge energy drink (called Volt or Jolt or Jitter or something) at 9:30 at night. Part of me wants to refuse the sale on the grounds that a twelve year old has no need for extra energy at 9:30 at night. But I have no authority for that sort of thing. I feel sorry for the parents.
Then I think that maybe the little scamp has no parents. Maybe he needs the energy so that he can shuffle to the train tracks (which the store is on the south side of) and hop on a boxcar. I envision the boy sitting in the rumble thump of the train under the web of stars vaulting the lands stretching out between the muddy great waters of the Mississippi and the vast blue of the Pacific. “God speed, my little Peachfuzz Hero of the Snowy West,” I say. “You need any smokes?”

There are energy supplements that you have to be eighteen to buy. These are the little bottles of 5 hour energy behind the counter. I tried one of these bottles last night to see what would happen. I tried it about half way through my shift- in case the “no crash” on the bottle was a lie. Here’s what happened:

5:49: I drink the bottle of 5 hour energy. “This American Life” is on the radio. I’m sad that I might negate the soothing effects of Ira Glass’s voice, but it’s in the interest of science.

5:53: I start to feel a little strange. I feel a little like I’m floating along next to my body.

5:55: My body slices a half pound of roast beef and a half pound of ham while I float around somewhere near the pop coolers.

6:01: My skin feels a little warm. I consult the bottle. It says that this is normal. Something in the drink makes the blood flow to the skin.

6:47: I am listening to a speech by Barack Obama while ringing people on the till at lightening speed. My fingers are a blur as I ring pack after pack of Marb lights.

7:03: I am seriously considering running for the Senate as I vacuum the front of the store twice.

7:20: Grover Cleveland enters the store and tells me I’m not cut out for a career in politics. He says, “beedle dee boop ding dong,” and exits through a central-air duct. I consult the bottle. Nothing about this.

8:13: I am starting to feel nauseated. Even the radio makes me feel a little queezy.

8:25: I am over the nausea. A serene feeling comes over me. An interview of Abraham Joshua Heschel from the 70’s is on the radio. I start to think that everything is going to be ok. I consider converting to Judaism.

8:45: I crash. I spend the rest of the evening swiping food stamp cards and looking morosely at the clock.

All in all, the 5 hour energy drink wasn’t worth it. It actually only lasted about 2 hours and 56 minutes and it made me fill ill for 12 minutes of that. It was like a bad coffee buzz. Even with the frequent bathroom breaks, I think I’ll stick with the 100% Colombian blend.

Disclaimer: Everything above is an accurate reflection of how I felt when I took the energy drink- except the part about Grover Cleveland. It was actually Taft.

No Time for Change

There’s no change in Zambia. All of their money is in bill form. This means I went over two years without having to count change. Now I’m home and it’s everywhere. I have great big pocketfuls of it when I take off my trousers at night; they hit the floor with a metallic clash. There’s change on my desk. There’s change on the bookshelf. There’s change in the couch (naturally). The cup holders in my car are practically useless.

I’m not complaining about any of this. I’m a big fan of change. I actually started collecting old coins (in case my full set of Beatles collector cards and affinity for Star Trek doesn’t impress the ladies). I think coins are interesting. I like to look at the year on each one and think about what was happening when that coin was made. They’re like little reminders that The United States is more than just today or tomorrow.

Having said all of that, there are a few things that I would like to say about change from the perspective of a convenience store clerk. If you walk into a convenience store:
Don’t pay for anything over $5.00 in change. If it’s over $3.00, there had better be some quarters in there.
Don’t allow your children to pay for two fists full of assorted hard candies with a Ziploc bag full of pennies, nickels and dimes; they can’t count it and it’s not cute when they try.
Don’t say something like, “what’s the total? $3.76? I think this is around $3.80,” before pushing a pile of change toward the clerk. In fact, never use the words “I think” in reference to the monetary value of your change. It’s your change- count it.
Don’t pay for $10.00 in lottery tickets with change. Paying in change may be a sign you should build up some more capital before gambling with it.
Don’t give the clerk change covered in axle grease, maple syrup, ectoplasm, etc.
Pick out the pocket lint.

In fact, don’t use change in convenience stores at all. Give it to me. I will collect it and sort it chronologically while lying on my parent’s living room carpet watching a rerun of Star Trek: Voyager.

People Who Don't Get Bathroom Breaks: Prisoners of War and the Clerk at the Mini Mart

I got to work at 2:45 yesterday. If you start at 2:45, they let you add the extra fifteen minutes to your time card. I work four shifts this week- Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday- and will come in fifteen minutes early for each one. That's an extra hour on the ol' pay check. Dave wins.
When I got to work at 2:45 (somewhere around 2:43, actually, but who's counting?), I was already half way through a 16 oz. Americano that I had picked up at a coffee/internet cafe. I was given a little crap about bringing in outside coffee, but I assured them that I would fill it with Southside Mini Mart coffee when I was done.
As she was leaving, my boss said that there was severe weather in the forecast. She said that if I needed to, I could go down into the basement. "Like the lower part where all the pop cases are?" I asked.
"No," she smiled and nodded toward a trap door in the floor next to the Doritos that led to the furnace. "Hope you don't mind spiders." I don't mind spiders. Correction: I am scared to death of spiders. But two years in Africa made me accustom to spiders that could make a mess of a Minnesota spider in a cage match. Still, the idea of huddling next to the furnace while a twister ripped my place of employment from its foundations and threw it across town didn't appeal to me. I looked out the window at the darkening clouds. Seven hours to go.

I hammered the Americano in about ten minutes and refilled the cup with the Southside Mini Mart's 100% Colombian blend. Soon my focus had shifted from the weather to the bathroom. During training, my teacher had stressed that if I should have to go to the bathroom, I should either wait until another employee who could watch the till came in or I should give one of the closer employees a call. This all seemed like a lot of bother to urinate. Instead, I focused my mind, concentrated on my breathing and held it. I didn't, however, stop drinking coffee. When I left Zambia I gave up cigarettes. My parents are on a low carb diet, so I stopped eating bread. I wasn't going to give up coffee.

The dark clouds had rolled in, looked threateningly at the poor unsuspecting inhabitants of Staples and then had unleashed what turned out to be a steady drizzle. The part of me that enjoys summer storms was a little disappointed. The part of me that's still a little freaked out about spiders was relieved. The part of me that had consumed 48 oz. of coffee in three hours was getting panicky. The pitter patter of rain didn't help. I started to consider my options:
1. Wait for someone to come in that could cover the register.
2. Call a co-worker and interrupt their night off so that I could have a pee.
3. "Go" swiftly.

I was sure I could make it. I looked out the window into the parking lot. No one. I looked at the pumps. No one. It was my chance. I made a run for it. Leaving the door slightly ajar would allow me to here the little beeper on the door if a customer walked in. It left me open to an embarrassing moment if someone came straight for the bathroom, but it was a chance I had to take.
During the process, I told myself to hurry. But these things take as long as they are going to take. Go, go, go... and buckle, and out! No time for flushing... I could come back. I re-emerged and looked around. The store was still empty. YES! I went back and flushed and put down the seat. I washed my hands thoroughly and strutted back to the register. Victory was mine, so I refilled my coffee cup.

The twister never came. All the storm did was make me wet when I walked out. I dropped the unsold newspapers into the bin outside that turned out to have an inch of water in the bottom. Oh well. Nothing could take my victory away from me.

Pepi Needs his Second-Hand

On May 27, I worked my first shift alone at the Mini Mart. I would start at 3:00 pm and finish my shift at 10:00 pm when I would shut off the lights, turn off the register, shut down the gas pumps, count the lottery, check the cappuccino machines, put the old newspapers out, wipe down the meat slicer, drop the money in the safe, lock up and go home. I must remember to do all of these things. I could not forget any of these things. That would be bad.

When I arrived at 2:45 pm, the boss (who often works the day shift) was there. She led me to the thermostat, told me that the central air had been freezing up at night and then gave me a flurry of directions about how to leave the thermostat and the air-conditioning units when I left the store. “Leave that one on, but turn the one in the other corner off, and turn the thermostat off or just turn it up to 73 or 75, but never below 70 and if you want you can just turn it off, alright?” I nodded. “Have a good night,” and she was out the door.

I was all alone in the convenience store. The only sound was the humming from the pop coolers and the two air-conditioning units. Now, I thought, I have to turn that one off and leave the other one on or was it that one off and this one on? Is this one even on now? I suddenly very aware of how alone I was. It reminded me of when the truck dropped me at my village in Zambia for the first time. I watched them drive away and I knew that I was on my own. If I had any problems, I had better…
My thought was interrupted by a fist on the counter. An old hunched man with stringy gray hair was standing there. He was wearing a dirty black vest and in the crook of his left arm he held a black Chihuahua. He mumbled something. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t hear you.”
“GRAND LIGHT 100’S!”
I looked up. There was an empty space where the Grand Light 100’s should have been. I looked down. There was another empty space where the cartons of Grand Light 100’s should have been. “I’m sorry; it looks like we’re out.” His face tightened. Clearly I had ruined his evening. The Chihuahua snarled. Apparently I had ruined his evening as well. The man’s fist hit the countertop again and he walked out. I said quietly to myself, “this job is only temporary.”

The rest of the evening was crazy. There was a constant flow of people and I was consequently forced to improvise when I wasn’t quite sure what I was doing. At the end of the night, I stuffed everything in the money pouch and hoped for the best. I shut off the lights (and one of the air-conditioning units), turned off the register, shut down the gas pumps, counted the lottery, checked the cappuccino machines, put the old newspapers out, wiped down the meat slicer, dropped the money in the safe, and locked the door. Then I drove to a different gas station and filled up my car. While filling the tank, I couldn’t help wondering if I had indeed locked the door to the Mini Mart. I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I didn’t check, so I went back. I pulled and the door didn’t come open. I could rest easy- at least until I found out whether or not I had screwed up anything on the register- so I went home. On the way home I listened to Blood, Sweat and Tears at full volume: … what goes up must come down.

I Assume the Kools are for MRS. Pibb

The hardest part about training at the Southside Mini Mart was not screaming at people who jeered me about being the new guy. I wanted to say, “I’M EDUCATED AND TALENTED AND CREATIVE AND THIS JOB IS ONLY TEMPORARY!” Instead, I said, “You’re right, I’m the new guy, so you’ll have to tell me again what kind of cigarettes you smoke- I swear I’ll get it next time,” and “I know it’s been a long time since anyone has asked you for an I.D., but I don’t know you,” and “I don’t know why the register is making that sound and I’m sure that this button will stop it… or this one… or this one…”
I stocked massive amounts of Mt. Dew and Mr. Pibb and Dr. Pepper and a sugar-filled kid’s drink called Bug Juice that doesn’t sound good to me in any way. I refilled the rack of Marlboro Lights again and again. I stood looking dumbly at the cigarette rack like a turkey in a rain storm whenever someone asked for a pack of Misty 120’s. I learned how to use the lunch meat slicer in the back of the store and got to take home my practice cuts- the ones that I didn’t cram directly into my mouth. I like the New Ulm summer sausage and the oven roasted turkey. I learned to pluck the slices of meat as they came out of the left side of the machine while running the uncut meat- and not my fingers- through the blade on the right side. I learned how to check lottery tickets. I learned that some people scratch tickets without having the faintest idea of what they are looking for, so they bring them to the convenience store attendant so that he or she can check them to tell if the ticket holder will have to go back to the feed mill on Monday. I learned how to make the machine that monitors the gasoline pumps stop beeping and then I forgot that information and then I learned it again.
On May 19, I worked a four hour shift with a teacher. On May 20, I worked another four hour shift with help. On the 22nd and 23rd, I worked full seven hour shifts with someone there to help if I needed it. By the end of that week I could easily find the Misty 120’s and the pumps had stopped tormenting me.
I was given a key. On May 27th, I would be on my own.

I Reveal my True Feelings Toward Hardware Hank

I came home from Africa on April 18. I landed in Duluth and was welcomed by a large group of friends and family that cheered for me when I got to the baggage claim. A small Japanese man who was talking on the phone and walking in front of me looked around in surprise and confusion when the roar came from the large group holding “welcome” signs. I imagine he was looking around to see what kind of local celebrity had gotten off the plane with him. I stood dumbfounded as tearful, familiar people hugged me. I had a million thoughts that shorted my brain and all I could do was stand there.
I came back to Bertha on April 20 with my parents and my best friend, who had driven from the Cities to welcome me. I rode with my friend while my parents drove separately. He talked the whole way home and I continued to be speechless.
On April 27, a foot of snow fell on central Minnesota. People all around me cursed at the late snowfall while I leaned on the back of the couch looking out the window and giggling. It had been two years, three months and a day since I had seen snow falling.
I spent the better part of a month taking the last of my malaria medication, hauling firewood for my father and trying to convince myself that I wasn’t dreaming. I applied at two hardware stores that didn’t call me back. Apparently a Bachelor’s Degree in Music and two years of development work in Zambia just weren’t good enough for Hardware Hank. Screw you too, Hank.
On May 14, I drove to Staples. Mom has a car, Dad has a car and my car had been sold when I left. I was left with the truck that normally sits in the shed waiting to plow snow. While driving the truck, I could see the gas gauge needle creeping toward the little E as I passed signs for gas at $3.79 a gallon. I pulled into the Southside Mini Mart just before the railroad tracks in Staples and proceeded to put $35.00 worth of fuel in the extended-cab beast. When I walked in to pay for the petrol, the lady behind the counter said that they were looking for help. They needed someone for one night a week and every other weekend. I said that all of those days were free for me. She asked me if I had convenience store experience. I told her that I had more than paid my dues behind a register. I started training the following Monday.