I've seen many reports of drive-offs at gas stations in the news lately. That never would've happened on my watch. If someone drove off without paying, it came out of your paycheck. Do you think I was going to let someone drive off with part of my paycheck?
I would scan the parking lot, searching for people who appeared suspicious. If I spotted someone spazzing out and acting all nervous, I would take the shotgun off the wall.
I only had to use it once. Late one night, I saw a guy get in his car without paying for the gas. I ran outside, pumped the shotgun, and fired it in the air. He immediately got out of the car and said, "Oops. I forgot to pay."
Ok. That was just a fantasy that would run through my head every night at work. Only there was no shotgun behind the counter; if I had wanted to stop a crook, I would've had to pull a Brad Hamilton and throw coffee in his face.
I worked at a quickie mart one summer during college. I worked second shift three days a week and third shift two days a week. I also took Calculus III that summer. Between the ever-changing sleep schedule and the math class, I'm sure I lost more than a few brain cells that summer.
My boss, a grizzled ex-Harley dude who had done time for murder over a drug deal gone awry, took a liking to me. He told me several times over that summer, "My son is a loser. I wish you were my son."
Having a convicted murderer wanting to adopt you really tells you a lot about your station in life.
But for a loner like myself, this was the ideal job. There were no other employees in the store while I worked! The second shift was actually enjoyable. I would go in at three and get off at eleven, which left plenty of time to go do something that night.
But the third shift?
"This job would be great if it wasn't for the fucking customers" - Clerks
While there were some enjoyable parts of working the third shift, like watching the drunks stumble in after a night out on the town, locking the doors for an hour and blasting the radio while I stocked the coolers and mopped the floors, and blocks of free time when I could be alone with the pornographic magazines behind the counter my thoughts, there was a certain breed of customer that came in during the third shift that you had to stay clear of.
Never make eye contact. Never ask a question. Never give more than a "Yes" or "No" answer.
Never befriend an insomniac. Because that son of a bitch would return night after night, wanting to start a conversation while you're trapped behind the counter. No exit. No escape.
I was too concerned with dodging insomniacs to worry about robbers and stuff like that (other than the drive-offs). My mother did enough worrying for the both of us.
But nothing ever happened. The closest I ever came to any kind of sketchy activity was a guy taking a crowbar to another guy's head beside Pump #4.
Sometimes I miss that place.
Song of the day: Eaten By The Monster Of Love by Sparks
The Lost Summer
