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.