Shit.

I lost count of how many people shat in the GS bathroom today. None of the culprits made any purchases. They came in for one specific reason: to empty their bowels in the one-stall restroom located about six feet from where I stand guard. It was intentional. It was biological warfare, and I was in no position to run. I was trapped, leaning over the counter and sucking in fresh air from the open door. Only, today it was 48 degrees and rainy, and I didn't think it necessary to wear a sweatshirt or a coat. But since it was either death by defecation or the flu, I chose the latter. And as I sit here sniffling, I think I can still smell their shit. Their little shit molecules clung to my nose hairs, and aren't letting go.

I want to know: why Ghetto Spur? Most people who stop to drop a deuce drive up, park, and casually head for the bathroom as if it were just another errand they had to run for the day. Super America is only a few blocks away, and their bathroom is nowhere near the clerk. There's a coffee shop half a block from GS, and they have 2 bathrooms! The most disturbing thing is that most of them are repeat offenders. Sometimes if I see them coming I'll lock the bathroom door and tell them the toilet's out of order, but I tend to freeze up. It makes me wonder whether or not I'd have the reflexes to whip out my knife if ever I were attacked.

There's one man who would give me (excuse the pun) a shit-eating grin when slinking out of the bathroom. He'd turn the fan off while maintaining eye contact with me, and I'd shoot him an angry glare. I hated him when I first started working at GS, and dreaded 2:00--his normal BM time. After a while, I wondered what would happen if I stopped taking it personally; if he'd stop shitting on my shift. So I started smiling, and welcoming him to the bathroom when he'd come by. After a couple of visits, he stopped shitting altogether--at least in our bathroom. Maybe people get off by making me smell their shit. Maybe they're banned from the Coffee Hag and Super America. Maybe they have IBS and really can't help it. Maybe I'll never know, but so long as I'm working at Ghetto Spur, I'll be carrying around my own air freshener.

Much to Julie's delight, we had a brand new freezer installed at Ghetto Spur today. The last one would break down about twice a month. It was a great source of stress for Julie, who would frequently, after a twelve hour workday, leave the womb of her one-bedroom apartment in order to save the thawing merchandise. She'd fill her car with Jack's pizzas, cram pot pies and White Castle Sliders in the ice cream freezer, and stuff the rest of the goods in the ice box outside. So, while the men who were hired for the day drilled, welded, and pounded, Julie danced around them, documenting it all with her digital camera. I did crosswords and stepped outside every twenty minutes to smoke.

Billy came in at 4:00 for his usual: coffee and a donut. It always gets a little busy toward the end of the day. Today, in addition to the regulars, unfamiliar lottery players and smokers seemed to come down in droves. The last hour of my shift flew by, and it wasn't until 4:50 that I was able to step outside for a break. (It had been almost 45 minutes! gasp!) Billy had finished his snack and was getting on his way, heading home, so I scooted behind him before the door swooped shut.

"Have a good night, Billy."

He turned to me and I saw tears rolling down his cheeks and dropping from his chin. But before I could ask him what was wrong a car pulled right up to the curb, just a few feet from where we stood. I held the door for the customer and told Billy I'd be right back. The parking lot suddenly filled with cars, the way it usually does when I want to take a smoke break, or need to go to the bathroom. People milled up and down the isles aimlessly, and I stood anxiously behind the counter, stealing glances of Billy, who waited patiently for me outside.

After fifteen minutes and almost two hundred dollars in transactions, I reunited with a shivering Billy. He wasn't crying anymore.

"I just wanted to give you a big hug," he smiled.

He wrapped his huge arms around me and squeezed tight. I struggled to breathe, and tried to break the embrace, but he didn't understand that I was done hugging. Billy is developmentally disabled, and doesn't have a consistent sense of personal boundaries.

Then he tried to kiss me. I cranked my head to the side, and he planted his lips on my cheek.

"I love you, Kate."

"Thanks, Billy."

"Do you love me too, Kate?"

***

Billy finally left, and I staggered back inside. I wanted to talk to someone about what had just happened, but no one seemed to have noticed my absence. Julie continued to photograph the new appliance and the workers buzzed around with their power tools. I stood at the counter and watched Billy as he waited at the corner to cross the street, traffic inexorably wheezing by.

Small Talk

Tonight I decided to try the frozen mini tacos. I've never seen anyone purchase them before, and for good reason. After slicing open the plastic wrap with my switchblade, I had to scrape a thick layer of frost from each taco. I remember thinking I should just throw them away, but I didn't. I microwaved them for a couple of minutes, and lay them in a neat row on a pile of napkins. Once they seemed cool (and dry) enough to eat, I devoured half of them. It was a loveless affair.

It wasn't long before my stomach started gurgling, and I began to sweat and salivate uncontrollably. I threw the remaining tacos in the garbage, and grabbed a Sprite. The smell was rank. Was it worse that the everyday stench of shit, sweat, and black mold? Yes, somehow it was, and the nausea was unrelenting. I went out for a smoke, but gagged so badly I had to run to the bathroom... Out went the mini tacos, just as joylessly as they had entered.

I rinsed my mouth, and returned to my post. The middle aged man who had been pumping gas came inside to pay. I wiped tears and shredded beef from my cheeks, and managed a smile. He was almost out the door, receipt in hand, but hesitated. He turned around, and stepped back to the counter.

"Can I tell you something?" he asked.

"All right," I said.

"The Lord wanted me to tell you that he loves you, and that everything will be okay."

"Sweet." A piece of beef flew out of my mouth, landing by his hand on the counter.

"A-MEN!" he sang.

"Word," I nodded, and took a long drink of Sprite, and returned to the bathroom to wash my face.

Casio Stan

A certain old man keeps leaving his phone number at Ghetto Spur for me. One time I told him I'd stop down by the seedy little wine bar nearby, since he offered to buy me a drink If I agreed. He would be playing a set, so I figured it would be a free drink in a friendly bar, and I wouldn't even have to make small talk with him. He used to come into the coffee shop where I worked as a barista, and would bring his Casio keyboard to play, what I like to refer to as, elevator music. It was kinda sweet; he just seemed like a loopy seventy year old man, playing his heart out for no one in particular.

The night I was supposed to meet him at the wine bar, I showed and he didn't. As it turned out, he'd actually told me he'd be at an equally seedy bar down the block. I had called upon a friend to meet me, just in case Stan wasn't really as harmless as I thought. My friend bought my drinks and we wrote "The Twelve Lays of Christmas."

"On the first day of Christmas my true love came on me,

A penis in a pussy. . ."

Diane works most of the early morning shifts. She is in her late forties, and takes care of her parents in a trailer park on the edge of town. She is short and heavy, and usually wears sweats. Diane is one of my favorites; she is the epitome of Minnesota Nice, but also has a wonderfully snarky side that customers almost never get to see. After seven years of laboring for the convenience store industry, not much surprises her. So when the old guy stopped in on her shift to pass along a note to me, Diane didn't think much of it. I showed up to relieve her at noon. She handed the envelope to me as we scooted around each other in the small space behind the counter, trying to swap tills without knocking cigarettes from the shelves. All its sealed secrecy, but inside, on a small scrap of paper, scratched:

Stan-

491-8184.

For the life of me I could not recall a "Stan," so after mulling it over awhile, I stuffed the envelope it my pocket, and went on with my day. It was Thursday, which meant I wouldn't be back until the following Monday, and I figured my query would go unanswered until then.

***

Stan comes in almost every day now. Not only has he given his number again directly to me, but has left two more envelopes with the same messages:

Stan-

491-8184.

I really thought I had a better radar for assholes, but I guess I'm still a little naive. I've tried ignoring him when he comes in to purchase his gasoline, but it's an impossibility; I am usually the only one working. Yesterday I had a line of six, and had accidentally charged a man five thousand dollars for a pack of cigarettes. As the till screamed at me, patrons sighed impatiently, and the man with the Marlboros eyed me with great frustration, the phone started ringing, and more cars trailed in like gas was going to go up to twenty dollars a gallon in five minutes. I started to sweat. Then Stan poked his silver head in the from outside--his gangly body loitering by the entrance.

"I was just wondering if you wanted to come up to the cities with me when you get off work."

I snapped. I'm not quite sure what happened after that, but Stan left with his tail between his legs, silver head bowed in defeat. I suppose I should feel a little guilty about embarrassing him in front of a line of customers, but I had had it with the old man. I believe love has no boundaries; my aunt is almost thirty years younger than my uncle, and they're very much in love. But, Stan is old enough to be my grandfather, and even though I'm no spring chicken, I don't think a fifty year age difference is ever going to seem appealing to me.

Barely Legal

There is a sixty year old man who buys his porn from Ghetto Spur. The first time he came in to make his weekly purchase I had no idea what he was asking for; I pointed to rows of cigarettes, and said I'd never heard of the brand Club before, but since I was new, I probably just didn't know where to find them. I should have been a little thrown by the notion that a pack of cigarettes would come with a "CD."

Julie brought a crate of cigarettes from the back room, and before I could ask her where we kept the Club cigarettes, she pointed to the shelf under the counter; to the shiny stacks of smut. "Ah...Oh," I said, and rummaged through them to find his magazine, fully aware that my face was red as the lace panties worn by the young sex pot on the cover. He shifted his weight and glanced out the window, mashing his gums nervously. When I emerged, he plucked it out of my hand and flipped it over. "I got a CD player at home," he chewed, "I only get the ones with the CDs in 'em."

After paying for his new magazine he went to the bathroom. I stood at the counter stunned, under my breath saying, "No fucking way. Is he fucking masturbating?" I was sure he was shooting love juice all over the place, and I would the one who would be cleaning it up at the end of the night. Just when my imagination took me to places I never want to revisit, he sneaked out the door. Sometimes climaxes can come quickly, but no one's that good, so I assured myself his bathroom visit was a clean one. Then, I noticed he didn't have the magazine in his hands. He pointed to his crotch, and smiled, "I put it in there so no one sees it."

Billy

Billy is probably my favorite customer. He comes in every day at 3:30 for a small coffee and a donut. He is in his early sixties and lives in a group home, though he's very high functioning. He works full-time in a warehouse, cooks his own meals, remembers to brush his teeth twice a day, and can put himself to bed by 9:00 every night. He talks about his "sweetheart," Sarah, who lives in a different group home. They've been together for almost twenty years, but she doesn't want to be married--much to Billy's disappointment. Sometimes he'll show me pictures of her he carries in his wallet, and he always blushes.

Sometimes Billy asks if he can hug me, which I normally don't do--even on occasion--with our most regular customers, but I usually say yes. When I was working yesterday I told him hugging wouldn't be a wise idea, since I felt a cold coming on, but that I should be tip-top by my Saturday shift, if he wanted to come in for coffee and a donut (and a hug). I'm always in a better mood after his visits. So much of my day is spent doling out lottery tickets and cigarettes to crabby patrons or keeping a constant stream of disinfectant spray to mute the shit stink in the neighboring bathroom; his visits are a nice change of pace from the indiscriminately defecating derelicts who keep Ghetto Spur in business.

From the Archives (January 10, 2010)

It's Sunday night, and I am working the closing shift. I usually only close on Thursdays, but Seth is in the hospital after a hard fall on the ice. He slipped last week somewhere between Ghetto Spur and his apartment, 20 yards away. I've graciously accepted the extra shifts, while secretly hoping Seth's hospital stay is extended through next week, so that I won't have to go to the food pantry again. I can't stomach another can of green beans, or helping of Hamburger Helper. I fucking hate Hamburger Helper. If I were still vegetarian I'd be emaciated, but thanks to MSG and anaemia, I enjoy a wide variety of meals for under $1.00.

Sundays are super slow, and the few people who patronize the store are quiet and quick to leave, with the exception of one woman. She is drunk, babbling about she just found five dollars on the ground, but fell into a snow drift while reaching for the bill. She shakes snow and dirt from her coat (onto the freshly mopped floor) while fumbling through her denim pocket for the elusive treasure. Eventually she finds it, and leaves with a pack of Misty's, minus five bones.

I try to keep myself entertained by working on the New York Times crossword puzzle, but am quickly discouraged. After a while I throw the entire Sunday paper in the garbage, crossword and all. I mill around, up and down the isles, and finally settle on a bag of chips before returning to my post. Only five minutes have passed.

It's been over a half an hour since anyone has come in, but around the corner walks Jake. On my very first day I was warned: he would ask me out, just like he has asked out every single female who has ever worked at Ghetto Spur. I am told he was in Vietnam, and he has a brain injury and PTSD; his mother--his caretaker--died a year ago, and he just hasn't been the same since. Jake buys Pall Malls and nervously eyes me.

"Hi Kate--is it okay for me to call you Kate...? Kate? Um, can I please have a pack of Pall Mall Menthol Light 100s, Kate?"

Jake is very sweet, and if I were not so annoyed I would perhaps consider accepting an offer for coffee sometime just to keep him company. But those days have passed, so instead I tell him my boyfriend would likely not consent, however very nice the offer.