Working at the convenient store #1

Working graveyards in a convenient store is one of the strangest things you can ever do. Things you can’t imagine happen. Even worse, things you can’t image happen and you have to deal with them.  

One of the more intriguing groups to frequent the store was the scratch ticket junkies. Mostly, but not all were senior citizens that spent there monthly earnings on scratch off tickets, cigarettes, coffee and the occasional pop – no doubt juiced up on some kind of over the counter medication that left them feeling youthful and shaky.  Some had someone to share the excitement with, some didn’t.

You haven’t gone head to head with anyone until you’ve faced a seventy-year old woman in big pink fuzzy slippers with only a long t-shirt on, full of piss and vinegar, looking to win 25 on five.

Armed with canes, walkers and wicked tongues they came in waves. Some were rough around the edges, silent, but crusty. Others were fragile and alone, but weren’t afraid to tell you exactly what time of day it was. It didn’t matter; nothing mattered except those damn lottery tickets. It was like Reno in the convenient store parking lot. 

Depending on the time of the month depended on what kind of money would be made by the State of Colorado that day. After all, how would we repair our roads and help fund education around the state without our faithful crowd?

At the beginning of the month it was all in, towards the end, it was playing the odds. Life was desperate. Life went on.

Being a late-night clerk you can’t escape the hundreds of stories that walk through the door. It’s one life story after another. It’s mostly the older generation that loves to share. Everybody knows I’ve always been a compassionate person. I picked up a few pointers and heard some amazing stories. But most older and lonely people have a beautiful tale to tell, mostly ending with something tragic in their lives. 

At first, like a sucker, you listen to them all. After a couple weeks, you’re like, “Ok, well I know and that really sucks about your kidneys and the fact that your kids don’t really come and visit you, but you’re going to have to go. I’ve got to mop to floor now. See you tomorrow.”

The convenient store was located in more or less a dangerous neighborhood in Denver. It was a working class neighborhood that had a long history of gang violence and poverty.

Both gang members and the police frequented the store. Ironically, they both approached hanging out late night at the corner store in a similar fashion.

A group of four or five guys would come into the store. I knew they were gang bangers, but I didn’t know what gang, and I didn’t care to ask. It worked the same every night, sometimes two or three times a night.

One would talk me up, usually the oldest one, while the others helped themselves to hotdogs, nachos, and fountain soda. They would then all stop to chat for a bit, and leave. They never once paid for the appetite they had built up that night. And I never asked them to. 

In fact, they had it down to such a science that they knew what items to take so that the clerk wouldn’t get in trouble. They only helped themselves to disposable items. They weren’t greedy about it. They always paid for their beer, or toilet paper, and never asked me for free smokes, but they knew they could drink the hell out of some Mountain Dew.

They would always ask on the way out, “We cool man?”

“Oh yeah, by all means, it’s cool,” I would say.

“Let us know if you need anything man, we got your back.”

I was only making $6.50 an hour with no benefits and I could give two shits about loyalty to a company that was killing people by the hour. I mean, there wasn’t an item in the store that was actually healthy for anyone. From the Ding-Dongs to the beer and smokes, we had everything you needed for an early heart attack. After all, we did have a special on hotdogs and a 44-ounce fountain drink that week. Did I care that some fella’s on the block were taking some hotdogs? Nope. 

Funny thing is. The cops would come in and do the exact same thing. One cop would stand and talk to me, asking me if things had been hot that night. His partner would get coffee and maybe a hotdog for the both of them. They would hang around for 10 minutes or so and then head on down the road, not paying a dime.

Walking out of the store they would ask, “Give us a call if you need anything, we’ll be right over.”

Strange fucking world.

Between 1:30a.m. and 3:00a.m it was a fuck all, drunks, and more drunks. Hordes of people, and random loners made beelines for the beer coolers.

Every night, like a bad dream that kept repeating itself, people came for more beer after closing time. The expressions on their faces were all the same after realizing that the beer cooler was locked and we had stopped selling beer at midnight.

The drunken ritual would begin. They would say, “Come on, man, please. I won’t tell.”

Most of the time it went from a pathetic drunken seduction that devolved into begging. After realizing you weren’t going to budge, they would let you know just what a piece of shit you really are. I mean after all, I was only a clerk. What the fuck did I know?  

Then it was on to plan B.  After realizing just how pathetic they had become they went back to being nice. Then of course, it would quickly revert back to begging. Some came to the realization of what fucktards they really were and profusely apologized, while others just left with random threats and insults. Sometimes I got a bit scarred, but most of the time I just rolled with it.

Ultimately, I knew it would all boil down to an hour and a half of complete and utter chaos. The beginning of the month and weekends were extra special. It was the same every night.

After the rush, the nights would go on forever. It is mostly just you and the fluorescent lights. The random individual on the streets looking for a restroom and a coffee came through, maybe the police and your gangster friends again. More or less, the place was dead between 3:30 until 6a.m.

You read every newspaper in the place, chain smoke, clean the counters, dust, mop the floors, make coffee, change the trash, sweep the parking lot and stock the shelves. Two hours later, before the morning rush, you repeat the process and make sure the next shift is ready to rock. 

And that’s it. Five nights a week. Eleven to seven at the 7-Eleven.

Like I said, strange fucking world. 

(I quit that job after getting jumped by three individuals walking on my way to work one night. It was cold, and icy, and they kicked the shit out me. The only reason I mention it being cold and icy is because none of us could stand up – maybe it saved my life. While they did plummet me, they could never really get a good kick or punch in on me because we all kept slipping on the ice. I didn’t fight back, just covered myself and took it, offering up my wallet to the fellas. Regardless, I didn’t need that shit. I was out. And so it goes.)

Look for Convenient store #2 when I worked the graveyard shift at Peterson’s on 4^th Avenue later this week.

 

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