News From the Clark Station (Feb)
Created | Updated Feb 19, 2003
The Tuhy News Letter (February 2003 Edition)
Introduction To News From The Clark Station
It’s been another long, drawn out week here at the Clark gas station, out here on the borders of sanity. We’re open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year. As usual I come in to finish the old week and start the new one, along with working the night before. Clark Station 1350A is located on Jackson Street US 150, in Morton Illinois. We’re next to grocery store, and across from the pumpkin factory, less than 50 yards from the Railroad tracks.
News From the Clark Station
The Electronic Bell, Relic of the Third Shift Saint
The title of this “News From the Clark Station” is “Third Shift Sainthood”. First I want to say that I’m not a saint, that I’m nowhere near a saint, and I don’t think that I’ll ever get there. It’s more likely that I’ll be shot out of a cannon than be canonized, and I’m not going to expose myself to a controlled explosion inside a solid iron cylinder. Though I must admit if I did survive, it could be one of my three miracles.
I do believe however that third shift has more than its share of saints. In fact, I believe that Third Shift employs more saints than any other. Justifying this belief isn’t easy to do or explain, but I’d guess you’d have to be here to understand. My third shift begins a half an hour earlier than most, so I catch a few of the graveyard shifters as they prepare to seize the day and work the night. These people, most of them somber in mood, seem to really get it. They understand both the meaning of life, and the real way the world works. And let me tell you, the answer to both of these things are about as far away from each other as possible.
Perhaps my graveyard shift gratitude is more like fanfare to the common man, though not as loud or regal. Though I’m not a “Third Shift Saint”, this doesn’t mean that I don’t suffer. You should see some of the people that I have to deal with. These weirdos make me feel a kinship with the other third shifters that have to deal with them, as I must cling to the belief that I’m not alone. Almost once a month I am offered carnal knowledge by some half-drunk semi-degenerate woman. The real ugly fact is that it’s a different woman each time. This is because most of them are too embarrassed to ever again come in the store after being refused. Yet, they all have something in common. It’s their smell. It’s the smell of stale beer, old sweat and dried blood ground into their leather. Though I wonder if they took their leather clothing off, if the smell of grime would go away.
One time I had a good friend in the store while this occurred. A forty year-old blond floozy offered to teach me things that I couldn’t imagine. Honestly, I can imagine, I just don’t want to. I politely refused and still wished her a good evening. After she left my friend Chris was laughing like a Hyena. He said: “Now I know why Sam calls you the “Third Shift Saint”. Not as amused, I said: “Why, because I refused or because I have to endure being propositioned by walking VD?”
I suppose I shouldn’t speak so ill of one of the Lord’s children, but things like this don’t help with my mood. Dealing with the drunken spew of civilization. My sarcasm isn’t a sign of a positive attitude. Plus, I know that Sam didn’t make up the name “Third Shift Saint”, for times like that.
On third shift, there is work to be done. There is coffee to be made and a Cappuccino Machine to be filled, which is a more dangerous task than meets the eye. I found out that six people every year die refilling cappuccino machines, just like mine. They accidentally breath in the cappuccino dust and die coughing and convulsing. This is a disturbing thought, my throat pulsating in the final stages of asphyxiation. I’m not too worried about this though, more people die each year trying to get change out of vending machines. Eight people die each year doing that. Let me tell you, I’d rather die heroically battling with a vending machine than lying on the floor convulsing inhaled hot cocoa.
After maintaining the non-carbonated caffeine, there are cigarettes to be stocked and counted. Counting cigarettes, I hate counting cigarettes. I like stocking cigarettes, organizing the racks, the different brands all ordered in their rows, everything in its place. It gives some control and sanity to an insane world. By the way, this portion of “News From the Clark Station” is brought to you by Marlborough Lights. Marlborough Lights constitute over 50% of the cigarettes sold and available at a Clark near you. Want nicotine, Marlborough Lights, the number one selling cancer stick, in the world!
And nobody even paid me to say that. (I don’t sell out!)
Counting cigarettes on Third Shift takes forever in an hour and a half. I don’t really hate counting cigarettes though. I enjoy it. I enjoy counting every single pack, every single mother-loving pack. At least when I’m counting cigarettes I get to be inside. Now I have to go outside, and do the various tasks that await. As I trudge through fresh snow I realize I’m not wearing any shoes . . . .
Just kidding, I wanted to see if you were still paying attention. When I go outside to “brave the cold”, I have a whole cold weather outfit. Aside from my shoes, socks, khakis, t-shirt, long sleeve shirt, and Clark shirt, (which I often don’t wear) I have a distinctive clothing entourage depending on my mood and the weather. In the summer I have my Matrix style full-length leather trench coat, which scares the kiddy thieves away (though I suppose it could be my aluminum baseball bat that does it). In Autumn I wear my non-leather London Fog trench coat. It has extra warm lining that you can take out, useful for the fluxuating weather of the fall. But now I have to wear my Lands End winter coat, though I sometimes wear my London Fog over it.
One of these sometimes is tonight, and I’m wearing my two coats. To cover my hands I’m wearing brown cloth gloves, and for my ears a green and white colored “Cat in the Hat” hat with sparse silver glitter. Outside I have garbage bags to take out to the dumpster, garbage linings to replace, window wash buckets to empty and refill, pumps to clean off and paper towels to replace. With so much time to be spent amidst the elements, I need my ears and head covered with my green and white “Cat in the Hat” hat.
For once I get through my night work without being interrupted by a customer. I don’t begrudge a customer wanting service, but I am sometimes silently annoyed when I get taken out of a solid working groove. An object in motion would rather stay in motion, plus I like to get my work done by a certain time.
I opened the door into the store and heard the electronic bell. I stomped the snow off of my shoes onto the mat, and went back behind the counter. I took off one coat, then the other, and hung them up in the back room. I took off my gloves and tossed them on the back counter, cause I knew that I would need them later. I took off my hat and looked at it for minute or two, and then I put it back on.
I remember when I got that hat, especially since I haven’t had it very long. Ellen Tallon, Chrissy Kamm, Sarah Zilkowski and I were cleaning and rearranging one of the basement rooms (the wheat room) of the Spalding Renewal Center. This was a lot of fun, since we did a great job and I pretty much watched them do all the work. Sarah Z found the hat, laughed and tossed it to me saying: “Here you go”. “What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked. “Keep it” Ellen suggested. My face lit up: “Really, I’ve always wanted a “Cat in the Hat” hat!” and I was happy. I put it on and Mrs. Ellen said: “Nice,” drawing out the word and bobbing her head up and down.
Ellen has a distinctive way she says: “Nice”. Every time she does it the same way, drawing out the word and nodding in a vertical semi-circle. This catches on, and now I can’t say “Nice” without doing the exact same thing. It’s the Ellen in me. When all was said and done, the room was clean and organized, and I hadn’t broken sweat in that hot basement room. When we all were given appreciation ice cream, I enjoyed more than my share with the rest. What can I say? I told you I wasn’t a saint.
I walked over to the soda fountain with my large glass Coca-Cola mug. Right now at the Clark station we don’t serve fountain coke, we stopped shortly after I started working there. I have no idea why. But the good thing is I got free fountain soda on the job, and it’s nice to have some perks. So I fill my Coke glass with Pepsi, and go back behind the counter. My hand went to my hat to take it off, but stopped at the temple. Conscious of the hat, I thought about the Cat in the Hat, and started to sing one of his songs. . . .
“In this world, a complexitous compicatation
In this world, a peculitous puzzlization,
In this world a verdunkuolous ruffueilization.
There come a time for, relax. . . .ification.
Your life’s full of boulders but shrug your sholdolders just shrug your sholdolders. Relax”
I sighed a pleasant sigh. The song made me feel good, and it’s important to feel good. I don’t mean just for me either. I have customers to think of. I know it might sound crazy, but it gives people some peace of mind to know that their routine gas-station clerk is okay. It’s a bond I really don’t understand. I don’t know if they care about me, or if the fact that I’m doing fine gives their lives some consistency. But, for whatever reason, it gives people peace of mind to know that the young guy behind the counter is all right as before. I am the Zen Master Clark station bartender.
When I think about it, I really am a bartender of sorts, a bartender of caffeine and smokes, running my own pub. This is especially true after 1:00am when the real bars close. I suppose this is the reason why I need to stay the same for my customers, because I’d want my bartender to be a calming, steady force. I run my own Cheers, a place where everybody knows your name, but names aren’t ever involved. It’s where the “bartender” knows your face, and he’s always glad you came. It is a place where you can see, that the troubles seem all the same. They get what they want but nobody knows their name.
With some of the things that people tell me, anonymity is their friend. Most of the regulars I know not only by face but also by cigarette. People tend to be loyal to a habitual cigarette for their habitual nicotine. So they buy the same brand and flavor of cigarettes every time. After a while, the person’s name, in my mind, becomes their brand of cigarette. Some people I see all the time ask the same way every time, and we fall into a soothing mutual routine. On third shift I have the following regulars to serve: “Kamel Reds”, “Soft Pack of Marlborough Lights” (his voice is so soothing when he says that), “Kool Filter Kings soft pack”, (he’s a good ol’ boy), “Marlborough Reds 100s in a box” (the Master of his Trailer and Monster Truck), “Carlton 120s” (she still wears cat-eye glasses), “Doral Ultra-Lights (he’s a cook at the local cracker barrel, and an exceptional one at that from what I hear), “Marlborough Lights 100s box” (he drives a snow plow), “Misty Full Flavor” (she’s the woman of the guy who drives a snow plow), “Salem Lights soft” (nobody buys them in slide box), “Camel Lights box” (who has hair to make him look like a girl), “Two boxes of Kool Milds”, (who has girlfriend without a finalized divorce) “Marlborough Lights and Marlborough Ultra-Lights” (they’re a couple), “Camel Wides” (who has a redneck sister), “Pall Mall Light 100s” (who’s been at the gas station every Saturday since the beginning of time), “Marlborough Light Menthol” (he’s a devoted member of the Raider Nation), “Marlborough Ultra-Light Menthol (she’s 24 and looks 17), and my favorite, “Smokes” who means Kamel Red Lights, the cigarette of silent Bob.
Then there are my friends. They like to come in as well. When it is a weekend night like tonight they get really bored at 1am and come looking for something to do and the occasional free soda. So my friends come, a sordid but good-hearted lot, bent on benign destruction. Sam is with them and he comes in first. Without asking if it’s free Sam goes to the fountain and fills his Lord of the Rings goblet. Without either of us having said a word he puts a dollar on the counter. I still don’t know how he can be so calm and drink so much freaking Mountain Dew. Let me tell you, Mountain Dew Code Red looks really cool in a lit up Lord of the Rings goblet. It looks like the Tolkien cup of the mass filled with the blood of Christ.
Sam stands in front of the counter, occasionally shifting his weight. He looks at my mug and says: “Pepsi in a Coke glass? That’s sacrilege”. I thought about it a moment and asked: “For the Pepsi or the glass?” Sam stood there silent for a moment before telling me to shut up. I chuckled, because I knew I got him. And there we stood, me and Sam.
The rest of the youth that time forgot came into the store with complaints of boredom. I ignored them at first. Then they asked me how I was. I said I was “Okay”. I mean, how good can one be at 1:00 am? In spite of that, I gave them some of my empty soda boxes for them to bust up. They had to be broken down anyway. You should know that soda syrup boxes are made strong and they require a lot of abuse to break them down. I gave them the key to my trunk so they could use the baseball bats and cheap golf clubs I had in there. Sam doesn’t join them, a sign of his maturity, but the rest had lots of fun. I watched from my windows as they smashed the cardboard. It’s amazing how easily teenage males are amused. Plus, I got to watch them do some of my work for me. I sighed one of those pleasant sighs, in relieved resignation.
Then, I looked up into the night sky, searching for the face of God, who watches with a thousand eyes. Then I look back at my friends, laughing as they joyously destroy industrial strength cardboard boxes. They are united in friendship and a respectful and unselfish love. It is there I see the face of God. My friends make sure they clean up after themselves, and once again they didn’t break anything they weren’t supposed to. This shows that God reveals himself, and shows his mercy, in mysterious ways. Sam looks out at them and says: “Good grief”. I look out at them and say: “Goodness gracious sakes alive.” Different words, but the same sentiment.
Sam told me he’d catch me later, and left to suffer the little children. It’s not long until Sergeant Crim drops by and asks me: “How’ve ya been?” The Sarge is my best regular. He asks me what the count is, meaning how many beautiful women have been in the store that night. It’s an old weekend tradition started long before I came to work at the station. Tonight the count is zero, so I say bagel. Then the Sarge asks me how many weirdos have been in the store, and the number is significantly larger.
I’m grateful for the Sarge. He’ll be on patrol until 7am, and he and Smiley are the reason I don’t have to worry about getting robbed. Every time Sarge gets a free drink and a Red Bull, and heads to the door to get back to business. I’ll tell him: “I hope you have a boring night, well, you know what I mean.” He’ll tell me he knows what I mean, and says what he always says: “I’ll catch you after a bit”. And as always I will commission him as he goes out the door, telling him to “Go forth and combat evil”.
Anyway, I appreciate the Sarge.
By now it is the Sabbath day, so I’m feeling good and bit religious. So I sang:
“Fill my cup and let it overflow
Fill my cup and let it overflow, oh yeah
Fill my cup and let it overflow,
Let it overflow with love”
Before I can get into the first verse, I’m interrupted by the sound of the door’s electronic bell. It’s Kamel Reds, and I immediately go bring him a pack from the back room. I come from the back room and put them on the counter, but he waves them away and tells me he just wants to pay for his gas. I looked at him again, and saw that he looked horrible. His eyes were pink and he looked demoralized. He looked like he came in second in an ass kicking contest.
I asked him: “Are you all right man?” He looked up, and he smiled at me. But it wasn’t a good smile, it was one of those smiles you see at funerals. It was a smile of quiet desperation. “It’s my birthday” he said. Not knowing what to say I told him happy birthday. He nodded his head left and right. “I’m twenty-three years old,” he said. “Two of my friends drown down from Chicago today so they could surprise me and wish me a happy birthday”. But the roads were slick and they went off the road and flipped over just outside of Bloomington.”
I was shocked. At home on the evening news I’d heard about that same accident. That car burned amidst the falling snow, but I hadn’t thought twice about it. One of persons was in critical condition, and other died inside the car, burned to death.
“Sweet Jesus,” I said.
Kamel Reds was a man on the verge of tears. “Well,” he said, “at least someone remembered my birthday”.
He wasn’t going to say any more. Somehow I knew that. He went out the door, and I could tell that it felt heavier than usual. The electronic bell resounded throughout my hollow soul. But maybe I just the wind knocked out of me. I thought about the car wreck, a tragedy of fire and ice. “Goodness gracious sakes alive” I said.
And so a few minutes in uninterrupted silence. I sat and meditated on the front counter. The journal star woman in her green SUV pulled up on the edge of the lot, emptied the vending machine of Saturday’s editions and put in the fresh Sunday papers.
A few more minutes passed, but it wasn’t long before I had some more customers. It was a couple a young paramedics who were just getting off a power shift. They parked their red ambulance next to the station, and their laughter drowned out the sound of the entry bell. I had never seen these guys before, and I offered them free coffee and fountain soda, available to all cops, firefighters, and civil servants in uniform. Just a token a richly deserved appreciation. At first they refused the free soda, not wanting to ingest caffeine right before heading home and going to bed. But they were really thankful for the offer. They were really surprised, never before had they been offered free coffee and soda. That probably had something to do with their large amount of gratitude. I would hate having to work a 7pm to 3am shift. Third shift is hard enough. Although they refused at first, both of them ended up getting Mountain Dew, as free soda was simply too hard to resist. As they left, one of them told me: “You’re a good man Charlie Brown,” and was out the door before I had a chance to thank him. What kind of a world do we live in where Paramedics are shocked at being offered a free soda? I thought about what that Paramedic said, and realized it could have been the greatest compliment of my life. “You’re a good man Charlie Brown”.
I wish I could have a positive attitude like those guys. They were upbeat, even after working a Paramedic’s power shift. Maybe it was just because their shift was over. I try to stay to stay upbeat of Third, but often sink to pessimism. I find myself like Charlie Brown, wary, waiting for somebody for somebody to pull the football out from under me.
I always did hate Lucy. Lucy for what purpose do you torture Charlie Brown? Lucy for what purpose do you torture Charlie Brown? Lucy for what purpose do you torture Charlie Brown? Lucy for why do you hate Charlie Brown?
I didn’t have much time to debate Peanuts in my head. A young guy rushed in the store wanting to pay for his gas with all speed. He has been a regular for a long time. I know the guy a little bit too. A long time ago when I carded him for cigarettes weeks before I found out he was twenty-six, about seven years older than he looks. He tells me to hurry up with the change, when my hands were already moving quickly. He told me that his young wife had a stroke and he was on his way to the hospital. As he hurried out I told him that I would be praying for her. He stopped, stood there for a moment with the door open, and turned around. He told me: “Thank you, you’re a good man.”
I did pray for her by the way, though maybe not as fervently as I should have. There was a floor that had to be clean and I didn’t have enough time not to multi-task. While praying I was going around spot-mopping the store, getting anything I missed when I mopped the whole floor hours before. I was praying a general prayer for Kamel Reds and the young man’s wife. Prayer comes naturally on Third Shift, as the questions of life and mysteries of the universe seem to be floating above your head. As I was speaking of the Trinity and crossing myself in conclusion, I slipped on a wet spot, and I yelled out as my feet flew in the air; before my back crashed to the floor. I’m so graceful.
Let me give you the visual, I was just finishing this short prayer while mopping. When I slipped, I was in the middle of crossing myself. My hand went North-South, my feet slipped upwards and my back crashed to the ground. Lying on the tile and looking at the ceiling in a lot of pain, my hand went West-East and finished the sign of the cross. I can’t laugh at this story, but everyone else will, so go ahead and enjoy yourself.
I then promised to God I would try to never pray this again: “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, (slips) OH HELL! . . . . .And of the Holy Spirit.”
Later on Sam was back in the store, and asked me what was going on. Slowly but surely I tell him about the various goings on, and the depressing tales that came my way. “Good Grief,” Sam says. I understood the sentiment. Sam fills his glass with Mountain Dew and says: “I don’t know how you deal with it all man, you’re the saint”. I reached back with my elbows and leaned on the back counter, I sighed and said: “All I can do is fight the good fight of faith, and all that that entails”. Sam chuckled for a moment and said: “That entails a lot”. I nodded in agreement. For a few minutes we stood motionless and in silence, and I thought of Kamel Reds and the young husband. I nodded left and right. “Christ have mercy.” I said, and took a long swig of soda.
“Kyrie Elison,” Sam echoed, and we clinked our glasses together.
It’s times like this that led Sam to coining me the “Third Shift Saint”. It’s funny, I thought I was Charlie Brown.
And that’s the news from the Clark station, where the women are strong, where all the men are semi-good looking, and all of the workers are above average.
Introduction To News From The Clark Station
It’s been another long, drawn out week here at the Clark gas station, out here on the borders of sanity. We’re open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year. As usual I come in to finish the old week and start the new one, along with working the night before. Clark Station 1350A is located on Jackson Street US 150, in Morton Illinois. We’re next to grocery store, and across from the pumpkin factory, less than 50 yards from the Railroad tracks.
News From the Clark Station
The Electronic Bell, Relic of the Third Shift Saint
The title of this “News From the Clark Station” is “Third Shift Sainthood”. First I want to say that I’m not a saint, that I’m nowhere near a saint, and I don’t think that I’ll ever get there. It’s more likely that I’ll be shot out of a cannon than be canonized, and I’m not going to expose myself to a controlled explosion inside a solid iron cylinder. Though I must admit if I did survive, it could be one of my three miracles.
I do believe however that third shift has more than its share of saints. In fact, I believe that Third Shift employs more saints than any other. Justifying this belief isn’t easy to do or explain, but I’d guess you’d have to be here to understand. My third shift begins a half an hour earlier than most, so I catch a few of the graveyard shifters as they prepare to seize the day and work the night. These people, most of them somber in mood, seem to really get it. They understand both the meaning of life, and the real way the world works. And let me tell you, the answer to both of these things are about as far away from each other as possible.
Perhaps my graveyard shift gratitude is more like fanfare to the common man, though not as loud or regal. Though I’m not a “Third Shift Saint”, this doesn’t mean that I don’t suffer. You should see some of the people that I have to deal with. These weirdos make me feel a kinship with the other third shifters that have to deal with them, as I must cling to the belief that I’m not alone. Almost once a month I am offered carnal knowledge by some half-drunk semi-degenerate woman. The real ugly fact is that it’s a different woman each time. This is because most of them are too embarrassed to ever again come in the store after being refused. Yet, they all have something in common. It’s their smell. It’s the smell of stale beer, old sweat and dried blood ground into their leather. Though I wonder if they took their leather clothing off, if the smell of grime would go away.
One time I had a good friend in the store while this occurred. A forty year-old blond floozy offered to teach me things that I couldn’t imagine. Honestly, I can imagine, I just don’t want to. I politely refused and still wished her a good evening. After she left my friend Chris was laughing like a Hyena. He said: “Now I know why Sam calls you the “Third Shift Saint”. Not as amused, I said: “Why, because I refused or because I have to endure being propositioned by walking VD?”
I suppose I shouldn’t speak so ill of one of the Lord’s children, but things like this don’t help with my mood. Dealing with the drunken spew of civilization. My sarcasm isn’t a sign of a positive attitude. Plus, I know that Sam didn’t make up the name “Third Shift Saint”, for times like that.
On third shift, there is work to be done. There is coffee to be made and a Cappuccino Machine to be filled, which is a more dangerous task than meets the eye. I found out that six people every year die refilling cappuccino machines, just like mine. They accidentally breath in the cappuccino dust and die coughing and convulsing. This is a disturbing thought, my throat pulsating in the final stages of asphyxiation. I’m not too worried about this though, more people die each year trying to get change out of vending machines. Eight people die each year doing that. Let me tell you, I’d rather die heroically battling with a vending machine than lying on the floor convulsing inhaled hot cocoa.
After maintaining the non-carbonated caffeine, there are cigarettes to be stocked and counted. Counting cigarettes, I hate counting cigarettes. I like stocking cigarettes, organizing the racks, the different brands all ordered in their rows, everything in its place. It gives some control and sanity to an insane world. By the way, this portion of “News From the Clark Station” is brought to you by Marlborough Lights. Marlborough Lights constitute over 50% of the cigarettes sold and available at a Clark near you. Want nicotine, Marlborough Lights, the number one selling cancer stick, in the world!
And nobody even paid me to say that. (I don’t sell out!)
Counting cigarettes on Third Shift takes forever in an hour and a half. I don’t really hate counting cigarettes though. I enjoy it. I enjoy counting every single pack, every single mother-loving pack. At least when I’m counting cigarettes I get to be inside. Now I have to go outside, and do the various tasks that await. As I trudge through fresh snow I realize I’m not wearing any shoes . . . .
Just kidding, I wanted to see if you were still paying attention. When I go outside to “brave the cold”, I have a whole cold weather outfit. Aside from my shoes, socks, khakis, t-shirt, long sleeve shirt, and Clark shirt, (which I often don’t wear) I have a distinctive clothing entourage depending on my mood and the weather. In the summer I have my Matrix style full-length leather trench coat, which scares the kiddy thieves away (though I suppose it could be my aluminum baseball bat that does it). In Autumn I wear my non-leather London Fog trench coat. It has extra warm lining that you can take out, useful for the fluxuating weather of the fall. But now I have to wear my Lands End winter coat, though I sometimes wear my London Fog over it.
One of these sometimes is tonight, and I’m wearing my two coats. To cover my hands I’m wearing brown cloth gloves, and for my ears a green and white colored “Cat in the Hat” hat with sparse silver glitter. Outside I have garbage bags to take out to the dumpster, garbage linings to replace, window wash buckets to empty and refill, pumps to clean off and paper towels to replace. With so much time to be spent amidst the elements, I need my ears and head covered with my green and white “Cat in the Hat” hat.
For once I get through my night work without being interrupted by a customer. I don’t begrudge a customer wanting service, but I am sometimes silently annoyed when I get taken out of a solid working groove. An object in motion would rather stay in motion, plus I like to get my work done by a certain time.
I opened the door into the store and heard the electronic bell. I stomped the snow off of my shoes onto the mat, and went back behind the counter. I took off one coat, then the other, and hung them up in the back room. I took off my gloves and tossed them on the back counter, cause I knew that I would need them later. I took off my hat and looked at it for minute or two, and then I put it back on.
I remember when I got that hat, especially since I haven’t had it very long. Ellen Tallon, Chrissy Kamm, Sarah Zilkowski and I were cleaning and rearranging one of the basement rooms (the wheat room) of the Spalding Renewal Center. This was a lot of fun, since we did a great job and I pretty much watched them do all the work. Sarah Z found the hat, laughed and tossed it to me saying: “Here you go”. “What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked. “Keep it” Ellen suggested. My face lit up: “Really, I’ve always wanted a “Cat in the Hat” hat!” and I was happy. I put it on and Mrs. Ellen said: “Nice,” drawing out the word and bobbing her head up and down.
Ellen has a distinctive way she says: “Nice”. Every time she does it the same way, drawing out the word and nodding in a vertical semi-circle. This catches on, and now I can’t say “Nice” without doing the exact same thing. It’s the Ellen in me. When all was said and done, the room was clean and organized, and I hadn’t broken sweat in that hot basement room. When we all were given appreciation ice cream, I enjoyed more than my share with the rest. What can I say? I told you I wasn’t a saint.
I walked over to the soda fountain with my large glass Coca-Cola mug. Right now at the Clark station we don’t serve fountain coke, we stopped shortly after I started working there. I have no idea why. But the good thing is I got free fountain soda on the job, and it’s nice to have some perks. So I fill my Coke glass with Pepsi, and go back behind the counter. My hand went to my hat to take it off, but stopped at the temple. Conscious of the hat, I thought about the Cat in the Hat, and started to sing one of his songs. . . .
“In this world, a complexitous compicatation
In this world, a peculitous puzzlization,
In this world a verdunkuolous ruffueilization.
There come a time for, relax. . . .ification.
Your life’s full of boulders but shrug your sholdolders just shrug your sholdolders. Relax”
I sighed a pleasant sigh. The song made me feel good, and it’s important to feel good. I don’t mean just for me either. I have customers to think of. I know it might sound crazy, but it gives people some peace of mind to know that their routine gas-station clerk is okay. It’s a bond I really don’t understand. I don’t know if they care about me, or if the fact that I’m doing fine gives their lives some consistency. But, for whatever reason, it gives people peace of mind to know that the young guy behind the counter is all right as before. I am the Zen Master Clark station bartender.
When I think about it, I really am a bartender of sorts, a bartender of caffeine and smokes, running my own pub. This is especially true after 1:00am when the real bars close. I suppose this is the reason why I need to stay the same for my customers, because I’d want my bartender to be a calming, steady force. I run my own Cheers, a place where everybody knows your name, but names aren’t ever involved. It’s where the “bartender” knows your face, and he’s always glad you came. It is a place where you can see, that the troubles seem all the same. They get what they want but nobody knows their name.
With some of the things that people tell me, anonymity is their friend. Most of the regulars I know not only by face but also by cigarette. People tend to be loyal to a habitual cigarette for their habitual nicotine. So they buy the same brand and flavor of cigarettes every time. After a while, the person’s name, in my mind, becomes their brand of cigarette. Some people I see all the time ask the same way every time, and we fall into a soothing mutual routine. On third shift I have the following regulars to serve: “Kamel Reds”, “Soft Pack of Marlborough Lights” (his voice is so soothing when he says that), “Kool Filter Kings soft pack”, (he’s a good ol’ boy), “Marlborough Reds 100s in a box” (the Master of his Trailer and Monster Truck), “Carlton 120s” (she still wears cat-eye glasses), “Doral Ultra-Lights (he’s a cook at the local cracker barrel, and an exceptional one at that from what I hear), “Marlborough Lights 100s box” (he drives a snow plow), “Misty Full Flavor” (she’s the woman of the guy who drives a snow plow), “Salem Lights soft” (nobody buys them in slide box), “Camel Lights box” (who has hair to make him look like a girl), “Two boxes of Kool Milds”, (who has girlfriend without a finalized divorce) “Marlborough Lights and Marlborough Ultra-Lights” (they’re a couple), “Camel Wides” (who has a redneck sister), “Pall Mall Light 100s” (who’s been at the gas station every Saturday since the beginning of time), “Marlborough Light Menthol” (he’s a devoted member of the Raider Nation), “Marlborough Ultra-Light Menthol (she’s 24 and looks 17), and my favorite, “Smokes” who means Kamel Red Lights, the cigarette of silent Bob.
Then there are my friends. They like to come in as well. When it is a weekend night like tonight they get really bored at 1am and come looking for something to do and the occasional free soda. So my friends come, a sordid but good-hearted lot, bent on benign destruction. Sam is with them and he comes in first. Without asking if it’s free Sam goes to the fountain and fills his Lord of the Rings goblet. Without either of us having said a word he puts a dollar on the counter. I still don’t know how he can be so calm and drink so much freaking Mountain Dew. Let me tell you, Mountain Dew Code Red looks really cool in a lit up Lord of the Rings goblet. It looks like the Tolkien cup of the mass filled with the blood of Christ.
Sam stands in front of the counter, occasionally shifting his weight. He looks at my mug and says: “Pepsi in a Coke glass? That’s sacrilege”. I thought about it a moment and asked: “For the Pepsi or the glass?” Sam stood there silent for a moment before telling me to shut up. I chuckled, because I knew I got him. And there we stood, me and Sam.
The rest of the youth that time forgot came into the store with complaints of boredom. I ignored them at first. Then they asked me how I was. I said I was “Okay”. I mean, how good can one be at 1:00 am? In spite of that, I gave them some of my empty soda boxes for them to bust up. They had to be broken down anyway. You should know that soda syrup boxes are made strong and they require a lot of abuse to break them down. I gave them the key to my trunk so they could use the baseball bats and cheap golf clubs I had in there. Sam doesn’t join them, a sign of his maturity, but the rest had lots of fun. I watched from my windows as they smashed the cardboard. It’s amazing how easily teenage males are amused. Plus, I got to watch them do some of my work for me. I sighed one of those pleasant sighs, in relieved resignation.
Then, I looked up into the night sky, searching for the face of God, who watches with a thousand eyes. Then I look back at my friends, laughing as they joyously destroy industrial strength cardboard boxes. They are united in friendship and a respectful and unselfish love. It is there I see the face of God. My friends make sure they clean up after themselves, and once again they didn’t break anything they weren’t supposed to. This shows that God reveals himself, and shows his mercy, in mysterious ways. Sam looks out at them and says: “Good grief”. I look out at them and say: “Goodness gracious sakes alive.” Different words, but the same sentiment.
Sam told me he’d catch me later, and left to suffer the little children. It’s not long until Sergeant Crim drops by and asks me: “How’ve ya been?” The Sarge is my best regular. He asks me what the count is, meaning how many beautiful women have been in the store that night. It’s an old weekend tradition started long before I came to work at the station. Tonight the count is zero, so I say bagel. Then the Sarge asks me how many weirdos have been in the store, and the number is significantly larger.
I’m grateful for the Sarge. He’ll be on patrol until 7am, and he and Smiley are the reason I don’t have to worry about getting robbed. Every time Sarge gets a free drink and a Red Bull, and heads to the door to get back to business. I’ll tell him: “I hope you have a boring night, well, you know what I mean.” He’ll tell me he knows what I mean, and says what he always says: “I’ll catch you after a bit”. And as always I will commission him as he goes out the door, telling him to “Go forth and combat evil”.
Anyway, I appreciate the Sarge.
By now it is the Sabbath day, so I’m feeling good and bit religious. So I sang:
“Fill my cup and let it overflow
Fill my cup and let it overflow, oh yeah
Fill my cup and let it overflow,
Let it overflow with love”
Before I can get into the first verse, I’m interrupted by the sound of the door’s electronic bell. It’s Kamel Reds, and I immediately go bring him a pack from the back room. I come from the back room and put them on the counter, but he waves them away and tells me he just wants to pay for his gas. I looked at him again, and saw that he looked horrible. His eyes were pink and he looked demoralized. He looked like he came in second in an ass kicking contest.
I asked him: “Are you all right man?” He looked up, and he smiled at me. But it wasn’t a good smile, it was one of those smiles you see at funerals. It was a smile of quiet desperation. “It’s my birthday” he said. Not knowing what to say I told him happy birthday. He nodded his head left and right. “I’m twenty-three years old,” he said. “Two of my friends drown down from Chicago today so they could surprise me and wish me a happy birthday”. But the roads were slick and they went off the road and flipped over just outside of Bloomington.”
I was shocked. At home on the evening news I’d heard about that same accident. That car burned amidst the falling snow, but I hadn’t thought twice about it. One of persons was in critical condition, and other died inside the car, burned to death.
“Sweet Jesus,” I said.
Kamel Reds was a man on the verge of tears. “Well,” he said, “at least someone remembered my birthday”.
He wasn’t going to say any more. Somehow I knew that. He went out the door, and I could tell that it felt heavier than usual. The electronic bell resounded throughout my hollow soul. But maybe I just the wind knocked out of me. I thought about the car wreck, a tragedy of fire and ice. “Goodness gracious sakes alive” I said.
And so a few minutes in uninterrupted silence. I sat and meditated on the front counter. The journal star woman in her green SUV pulled up on the edge of the lot, emptied the vending machine of Saturday’s editions and put in the fresh Sunday papers.
A few more minutes passed, but it wasn’t long before I had some more customers. It was a couple a young paramedics who were just getting off a power shift. They parked their red ambulance next to the station, and their laughter drowned out the sound of the entry bell. I had never seen these guys before, and I offered them free coffee and fountain soda, available to all cops, firefighters, and civil servants in uniform. Just a token a richly deserved appreciation. At first they refused the free soda, not wanting to ingest caffeine right before heading home and going to bed. But they were really thankful for the offer. They were really surprised, never before had they been offered free coffee and soda. That probably had something to do with their large amount of gratitude. I would hate having to work a 7pm to 3am shift. Third shift is hard enough. Although they refused at first, both of them ended up getting Mountain Dew, as free soda was simply too hard to resist. As they left, one of them told me: “You’re a good man Charlie Brown,” and was out the door before I had a chance to thank him. What kind of a world do we live in where Paramedics are shocked at being offered a free soda? I thought about what that Paramedic said, and realized it could have been the greatest compliment of my life. “You’re a good man Charlie Brown”.
I wish I could have a positive attitude like those guys. They were upbeat, even after working a Paramedic’s power shift. Maybe it was just because their shift was over. I try to stay to stay upbeat of Third, but often sink to pessimism. I find myself like Charlie Brown, wary, waiting for somebody for somebody to pull the football out from under me.
I always did hate Lucy. Lucy for what purpose do you torture Charlie Brown? Lucy for what purpose do you torture Charlie Brown? Lucy for what purpose do you torture Charlie Brown? Lucy for why do you hate Charlie Brown?
I didn’t have much time to debate Peanuts in my head. A young guy rushed in the store wanting to pay for his gas with all speed. He has been a regular for a long time. I know the guy a little bit too. A long time ago when I carded him for cigarettes weeks before I found out he was twenty-six, about seven years older than he looks. He tells me to hurry up with the change, when my hands were already moving quickly. He told me that his young wife had a stroke and he was on his way to the hospital. As he hurried out I told him that I would be praying for her. He stopped, stood there for a moment with the door open, and turned around. He told me: “Thank you, you’re a good man.”
I did pray for her by the way, though maybe not as fervently as I should have. There was a floor that had to be clean and I didn’t have enough time not to multi-task. While praying I was going around spot-mopping the store, getting anything I missed when I mopped the whole floor hours before. I was praying a general prayer for Kamel Reds and the young man’s wife. Prayer comes naturally on Third Shift, as the questions of life and mysteries of the universe seem to be floating above your head. As I was speaking of the Trinity and crossing myself in conclusion, I slipped on a wet spot, and I yelled out as my feet flew in the air; before my back crashed to the floor. I’m so graceful.
Let me give you the visual, I was just finishing this short prayer while mopping. When I slipped, I was in the middle of crossing myself. My hand went North-South, my feet slipped upwards and my back crashed to the ground. Lying on the tile and looking at the ceiling in a lot of pain, my hand went West-East and finished the sign of the cross. I can’t laugh at this story, but everyone else will, so go ahead and enjoy yourself.
I then promised to God I would try to never pray this again: “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, (slips) OH HELL! . . . . .And of the Holy Spirit.”
Later on Sam was back in the store, and asked me what was going on. Slowly but surely I tell him about the various goings on, and the depressing tales that came my way. “Good Grief,” Sam says. I understood the sentiment. Sam fills his glass with Mountain Dew and says: “I don’t know how you deal with it all man, you’re the saint”. I reached back with my elbows and leaned on the back counter, I sighed and said: “All I can do is fight the good fight of faith, and all that that entails”. Sam chuckled for a moment and said: “That entails a lot”. I nodded in agreement. For a few minutes we stood motionless and in silence, and I thought of Kamel Reds and the young husband. I nodded left and right. “Christ have mercy.” I said, and took a long swig of soda.
“Kyrie Elison,” Sam echoed, and we clinked our glasses together.
It’s times like this that led Sam to coining me the “Third Shift Saint”. It’s funny, I thought I was Charlie Brown.
And that’s the news from the Clark station, where the women are strong, where all the men are semi-good looking, and all of the workers are above average.
