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.