EXPOSED: A clerk working midnights, all your fears are true

It was Saturday night, and the air was thick with anticipation. Guys were putting on their best Tommy Hilfiger bar shirts, and girls were pulling those little black bar pants on with all of their might. I pulled on my polo shirt, tossed on my favorite ball cap, and stood before the mirror to behold the mighty sight that was me. I was the few, the proud, the brave – the midnight convenience store worker.
After rifling through my backpack one last time with a pre-work checklist (antacids, aspirin, CD’s, homework), I made my way to the door. I took one last look at my cozy couch, and headed for my car.
9:40 p.m. Determined to get a head start on
things, I breeze through the door early, hoping to assess the damage
on the battlefield before having to play damage control.
11:08 p.m. The store is finally empty enough
for me to watch my own head spin. I like Sibling’s Weekend so far. The
sibs actually smile at me and acknowledge that I’m human. A small tear
forms in the corner of my eye.
11:15 p.m. I decide to change the nozzle on
the nacho cheese dispenser so I can shut down the cheese pump for the
night. For those who’ve never worked in a convenience store, here’s
a simple mathematic equation: college students at 3 a.m. + nacho cheese
dispenser = really big mess. Therefore, no nachos when I’m working a
graveyard.
11:17 p.m. My finger gets caught on a rather
large hunk of dried cheese product trying to twist off the nozzle. A
piece breaks off, and I end up with what I believe to be the world’s
first ever “cheese splinter” embedded in my index finger. No time like
the present to stop eating convenience store food, kids.
11:22 p.m. With a bandaged finger, I engage
in a simple conversation with an underage customer looking to buy cigarettes.
ME: “Sorry, man, but you’re not 18 ’til March.
I can’t sell these to you.”
CUSTOMER: “You can’t sell me these Marlboro
Lights?”
ME: “Nope. Sorry about that.”
CUSTOMER: (after about 20 seconds of deep
thought) “Well, am I old enough to buy Camel Lights, then?”
11:23 p.m. Watched dejected customer leave
store. I’m seriously considering spearheading Michigan legislature to
place a minimum IQ limit on anyone entering a convenience store after
10 p.m.
11:29 p.m. Pondered my fate in a Marxist society
ruled by monkeys. Heh heh, silly monkeys.
11:34 p.m. Started stocking cooler.
11:45 p.m. Stepped out of cooler to help customer.
11:46 p.m. My nipples finally stop showing
through my shirt.
12:30 a.m. I head to the fountain machine
for my third Sprite refill of the evening. Yes, kids, good-old caffeine
free Sprite. You see, caffeine is the work of the devil when you’re
a graveyard shift worker. Caffeine keeps you awake for three hours after
a shift, when the last thing in the world you want to do is have to
flip through the cable channels on warp speed again trying to find something
other than a Tae-Bo infomercial to watch.
I guess I drink Sprite because water doesn’t have any carbonation, and at 3:30 in the morning, belching at yourself in the cooler is actually pretty entertaining. Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.
12:57 a.m. Co-worker stops in to visit ‘prices’
me. I’ve got a black market value of $1.39 (non-taxable), and I’m dated
to go stale in 3 days. At least my shelf life is longer than Lou Bega’s.
1:13 a.m. Received much needed support in
the form of a smiling girlfriend. She brings reinforcements – fast food
cheeseburgers. For now, I’m as close to heaven as I can be. Hell, anything
beats that nacho cheese at this point.
1:35 a.m. Why are there four people buying
gas at this time of night?
2:06 a.m. Pondering Britney. They don’t look
all that fake.
2:08 a.m. Held a great conversation with a
customer about why college students forego sleep for extra-curricular
activities and jobs. Too bad we couldn’t find an answer.
2:32 a.m. Number of 32 oz. Sprites downed:
6. Number of hurried trips to the restroom between customers: 13. No
one said this job was easy, folks.
3:07 a.m. I swear to the heavens above that
I just saw Ronald Reagan enter the store. I’m really starting to second-guess
that whole “no caffeine” issue.
3:32 a.m. Why is it that large groups of people
only come to roam through stores for no good reason only seconds after
the floors have been completely mopped?
3:47 a.m. A large man wearing a tech vest
and a ski mask comes into the store and demands all of the money out
of the cash drawer. His hand is in his pocket holding what I’m pretty
sure is something bad, and he rushes towards the snack foods as I open
the register. He cusses at me because there’s no nacho cheese, then
heads back for the money. He reaches over the counter, and I grab his
tech vest and smash his head against the counter. He screams like he
just lost a Grammy to Christina Aguilera before collapsing on the floor
unconscious. A remote control falls out of his pocket, and I laugh as
I sing a refrain of “I am mighty!” Police drag him away, and I’m given
a $10 an hour raise for my bravery. Best of all, Britney Spears is on
the phone, waiting to tell me how proud she is of my bravery.
3:53 a.m. I wake up in a puddle of my own
drool. Newspaper ink is plastered over my cheek from falling asleep
on the Globe. Poor Britney is covered in a small wading pool of my saliva.
Sorry, Brit.
3:59 a.m. To stay awake, I begin to mop the
floors. Again.
4:02 a.m. I pick myself up off the floor and
reconstruct the candy display I just took out. Poor cardboard never
saw it coming.
4:35 a.m. The Sunday papers are here. Life
is good.
5:58 a.m. I’ve actually managed to get some
work done. The floors are spotless, the ice dispensers are full, the
cooler is stocked, and that still damp copy of the Globe is on the desk
in the office drying out.
6:05 a.m. My relief calls in and tells me
that she’ll be about an hour late.
6:06 a.m. I hang up the phone and sob quietly.
I head to the office and consult with Britney. “Why, Britney, why?”
6:07 a.m. Even a picture in a bad tabloid
seems to be mocking me.
6:48 a.m. Finally, I get clocked out and head
for my car. The drive home could be much nicer if my windshield wipers
actually worked. But hey, I made it through the night. Now if only I
could do something about that cheese splinter…