The first time I met The Day Shift Manager, was a day I couldn’t forget even if I wanted to.
It was close to sunset, that odd humidity that came along with the summer season was ever present, but was something I never minded. Though I couldn’t deny that the cool air was nice, once I walked through the front doors of the convenience store. Wearing what I thought was a little more formal than what I was told to wear. A thrifted dark red polo and beige khakis that were a size too big, but I made them work, mainly with water and plenty of time with a hairdryer.
I looked around to see the somewhat bustling interior of the store. People were in two separate lines that lead up to the registers, while some others browsed what few aisles I could see. I felt…anxious? It was my first day of my first job, and I certainly felt like a deer in headlights as I looked around, fixed in place near the entrance. Thoughts rushed through my head like they always do, but this time they were sprinkled with the voice of that little hateful fucking Scrooge everyone has on their shoulder. The idea that I could botch my chances at obtaining this dubiously well paying position at this convenient store spread like wild-fire across my mind and the missing person bulletin boards, but that mattered little to me in comparison to the current issue at hand, even though it nipped at me like an ever increasing cold breeze.
I’m pretty sure I spaced out for a good minute, or however long it took for someone to notice the generically dressed girl standing idly at the front, because the next thing I knew, a middle-aged man had walked in front of me. The first thing I noticed, other than his age, was the plastic name tag on his chest. It had two lines of text; the first was “Marco”, and the second read his title, “Day Manager”. He looked me dead in the eye.
He said with a somewhat thick southern accent that bordered on either being annoyed or concerned about the strange girl that had been mimicking a statue not but a few seconds ago.
“W-wa-well I’m here to see the manager, uh, you, about my first day.”
He raised an eyebrow, as his eyes squinted to a questioning stare.
“I applied to work for the night shift.”
The second I said that, the look on his face, the one that questioned my very existence, swapped to a facial expression that I can only describe as pissed. He lifted his hand towards me; the thought of him for whatever reason hitting me came to mind, so I flinched a bit as he instead tapped the old watch that was leather bound around his wrist.
“You're an hour late, kid, it’s best if ya just leave.”
He said with such a stern tone, I couldn’t mistake it as anything else. Though my timidity dropped faster than a 1-inch fall.
I said with a firm and audible voice, before I could stop myself.
His tone shifted over to confusion, as his eyes widened a little from my sudden bold outburst towards my possible employer.
“Bullshit, no the hell I'm not.”
“Yea? You sayin my watch is wrong?”
I could have said something else, something quippy or perhaps something drastic, but instead I pulled my phone out of my pocket, flipped it open to show him and myself that I was not wrong. It was clear as day; “7:29PM”. The second he saw the time, he smiled a bit, like a silent, proud father seeing his child punch a random bully in the face on the playground.
“Ha, good, you have backbone. We don’t hire pushovers; well I wouldn’t hire a pushover, now get walkin. I have to show ya your duties for the night.”
He turned and started to strode, while he rewinded his watch. I was surprised by his reaction; this fucker really just tested me like fresh meat. It was hard to stay mad at him, mainly because I needed the job. I shoved my phone back into my pocket, behind him, trying to keep up, but the way he moved around people, displays, shelves and so on, did not make it easy to simultaneously keep up and listen to him.
“Okay, first, when ya have the chance, always make sure the shelves are stocked. It may be the night shift, but sometimes you’ll get an up traffic of people getting off work from the nearby factories at least and at most, once a week. They don’t like takin shit, but they sure do like talkin shit. Seriously though, if something they want ain’t on the shelf cause you forgot to stock em, they won’t be all that pleasant. Expect a very steady and slow amount of customers through the night though; gives ya plenty of time between customers and your other duties.”
“What about the other types of customers?”
“Well, that’s a good question now. You’ll get varyin types. Most common now are the workers, travelers, some vacationing folk, hunters, campers, addicts, alcoholics, crazies, some sleep walkers, homeless and maybe a wild animal or two. If ya lucky.”
“I said Rough Housers! Them folk don’t care much to shop.”
“No, Rough Housers, they’re uh, not local but they tend to ride near the town close enough to stop by the store, some shop, but the whole lot will be there to loiter. Make sure you don’t let em in yourself.”
“Cuz they won’t come in unless you let them in.”
“That seems very fucking, vampire-esque, why?”
“I’ve been askin the same thing for years now. Also, tone it down on the profanity. I personally don’t mind it, obviously, but never near the customers.”
We had walked into an area of the store where there were no customers, no one browsing or even walking by. Most were up near the front getting their things checked out to leave. Marco grinned a bit at this revelation.
“Good catch, but I mean it, no profanity or weird talk around the customers, even if the customers are uh, not of the normal variety.”
I didn’t argue, just nodded along, as it was understandable; it would look bad if an employee were caught on a cussing spree. Probably a capital offense if I was caught doing that, death penalty, I guess. Though the way he emphasized “normal variety”, made me slightly unsettled. He referred to how alcoholics, addicts and even the mentally unstable were normal for the night shift, or just in general, so what were the abnormal variety of customers? I’d soon find out.
I was aware that my town, in comparison to others nearby, isn't that great. I knew that we have our fair share of issues, but the fact that there were more I was unaware of, was somewhat startling and yet not all that surprising. I had to be realistic, I’m young, of course I didn’t know everything about this town, even though it was small enough where at some point in someone’s life they’d know everyone, but it was still big enough to have a sizable population and there was plenty of land. I had let my brain wander off again, but Marco interrupted my thoughts before I could.
“Hey, are you okay? You're doing that thing again. Do you have a condition? I’m aware you don’t sleep much, which is perfect for the job, but I better not be seein you dozing off when I walk in for the day shift, cause you didn’t get enough winks in one sittin.”
“Wait, what? Uh no, what do you mean by day shift?”
“You read the name tag right? Says the Day Manager. I work during the day. I thought a youngun like you would understand that.”
“I get that, but why isn’t the Night Manager running me through this then?”
He stopped walking all of a sudden, which in turn, made me stop walking. A slight bit of anxiety raised in me, when he did. He scratched at what little hair he had left, but it wasn’t like he was bald, or balding. His head was obviously shaved recently, leaving a thin layer of dark hair on his scalp. It took him a minute to respond, obviously struggling to find a proper answer; as to why, I had no idea at the time.
“Ooh, yeah, well he, hm, quit a while back, haven’t been able to fill the position with someone who’s of proper character. Since that’s the case, I will be leavin ya a list of things to do, now I will check if you did them or not, so don’t be skimpin out on your duties, no matter how trivial they may be.”
“What about the other employees?”
He sighed a bit in response.
“Well, that’s the other thing, you're the only Night Shift Employee, for now at least, well, except the Night Janitor; I believe he’s already here too, you’ll see him later.”
“I’m one of two Night Shift Employees for a 12 hour shift?”
“Yep. That gonna be a problem?”
He gave me a different look. A look that told me, “hey, you better not be backing out now, missy”, so instead I asked him.
“I assume that’s why the pay is—-“
“Yes, that’s why the pay is quite generous. Now you have any more questions about this, or may I proceed in givin ya your other duties, don’t have a whole lotta of time?”
He was definitely annoyed with how many questions I was asking, and of course, being the curious person I am, would’ve asked further, but he was right, if he didn’t have a lot of time to show me the ropes, then that should be priority. Even though the new red flags bothered me more than the old. It can’t be that bad.
“Good, don’t want to be holdin ya hand.”
For the short time we had left, I did my best to process all the tasks, duties, tips, tricks, locations of stored stock and etc that were placed upon me; Marco did well to explain them all in a short and orderly manner somehow. While doing so, we passed a door that I assumed was a closet that had the faint smell of something earthy? Like if dirt and wood died a bit leaving this certain odd smell that was neither pleasant or unpleasant, more like a mixed bag of feelings that metamorphosed into an odor. Marco didn’t bring it up, so I tried my best to ignore it while we were in that specific area, putting on my best poker face, so I wouldn’t alert him to how I was this close to gagging a bit from the sucker punch to my nose.
By the end, the idea that I had a work load fit for 10 men did not phase me all that much. I can’t 100% describe why it didn’t, but simply put it, I’ve always enjoyed labor, even if it is tedious and grueling. I never understood why that was the case for me. Sure, I was okay with reading a book, playing cards or cooking came to mind, but working was something different. The slight satisfaction that came with completing a task was somehow worth it for me. I was always told I came from a family of hard workers, which I find to be stupid, because I can name at least 3 assholes in my family who would rather die than pick up a shovel, and that's not even counting all of them.
Marco seemed slightly phased but for other reasons. Probably by how unphased I was about the shit load of information I had apparently processed, also maybe the fact that it was obvious that I was aware of the prominent red flags but I hadn’t asked as many questions as he expected.
He lifted an eyebrow, and scratched his head, while he took a minute to say.
“So, ya good for the night?”
“Hm, you are one weird kid, but nothin wrong with ya being fine with the work. It's a nice bit of fresh air, I guess. Before you actually start, my phone number’ is written on the corkboard in the break room for any emergencies or even just questions, but I prefer you to talk to the Janitor first before you call me; don't wanna be waken me up at 3AM in the mornin for a question on how to handle change or a rabid deer. Say, if ya get into any real trouble, like needin the law, the deputy’s cell is on the board too, he’s a friend of the store.”
“He’s in the closet, passed it 10 minutes ago, the one that smells like a fresh grave. He’s quite the character, but does the job well, and he’s friendly.”
I was going to ask why the personal phone number of a police officer was written in such a public area, but at least I now know that I was correct on the door being a closet. He looked at his watch and whistled.
“Gotta get goin now, almost 8, and I don’t like stayin past my hours. Oh, yeah, wait.”
He delved a hand into his fanny pack that was positioned on his side, to take out a piece of white plastic. Extending his arm out with the plastic in hand, to show it was a name tag. What was printed on it was my name, and the role of Night Shift Employee.
“Wear it at all times during ya shift; ya don’t want em mistaken ya for someone else.”
I awkwardly grabbed it out of his hand and pinned it on to my shirt. Wait, who would mistake me as someone else? Before I could ask, he said, “Welcome to the Night Shit, good luck,” then turned towards the break room and sped walked away, not giving me a chance to get a word in edgewise. Well, in highsight, what could have I said that wouldn’t have annoyed him further?
Marco, till this day, still doesn’t like to answer questions, especially towards the weirder aspects of the store or town. He likes to dodge or change the subject by using the same few excuses, and somehow he’s gotten away with it every time. Yesterday, out of genuine curiosity while being handed off the figurative torch, I asked.
“What’s with the coffee machine?”
Marco looked at me while he grabbed a cup of coffee to go.
“Well, it’s always clean, and never runs out of coffee, right?”
Marco sighed, before he said, “Abigail, it's a coffee machine, people here including myself and you run on it like an alcoholic needs their booze. Why would it ever be empty or filthy?”
“I’m aware of that, Marco, but no one ever refills it or cleans it, even the drip tray is empty when I check. It’s just always clean.”
He took a long sip of his joe, smacking his lips in odd contentment with the bland brew, “And what makes ya think that?”
“I don’t know, perhaps the fact that you're a wealth of knowledge about this crap hole of a town, you tell me?”
“Abigail, what's wrong with you? I get you’re a curious gal, but you don’t ask me these things. Did something happen? Did Keaton come back? I told that no good salt- lickin weasel shit that he ain’t allowed on the premises no more after the whole goose incident.”
“No, Keaton wasn’t here; I’m just asking about the haunted coffee machine, Marco, aren’t you at all curious about it?”
I noticed that he’d been glancing at his watch constantly during our talk, which made me consider asking why, but adding another question to the imaginary box may just make it implode.
“Well, if you believe it’s haunted, then sure, it’s haunted. If not, maybe it’s just one of em fancy models; ya know it never hurts to have something like that, especially with how busy the shop gets. Never know when anyone will have the time.
“Marco, I have the time, the other employees on the day shift have the time, so that’s not what I was saying, I was—“
“Welp, sorry to cut this lovely conversation short, but you know I don’t like staying past my shift; Marla is waitin for me back home.”
He said as he turned away from me, and speed walked away, he wasn’t one for grace, sure efficiency, but that’s like your mechanic uncle making a good engine out of plastic bottles, soda cans, AA batteries, copper wire and rubber bands; it may not look pretty, far from it, but it somehow runs better than most others. The way he raced away made it look like he needed to take a real bad piss, not further feeding into what I thought was my harmless curiosity.
“Marco!” I called after him, my voice raised in slight annoyance that he was dodging another of our conversations, and somehow he’s gotten away with it once again. I could chase him down, but I haven’t known Marco to break under pressure, so why bother.
That reminds me, I need to bring up a more recent experience, something that would probably be more interesting than you all getting to know my coworker. It was last night, the shift had been going at its usual pace, that of a snail. Some passerby bought things for the road, then there was the large group of factory workers who bought a ton of our stock from toiletries, canned goods, cartons of cigarettes, alcohol, and the rare few who bought fruit while the rest treated the produce aisle like the plague.
One, by the name of Leon Brooks was the last to check out. He’s a local and a regular, and I'd be surprised not to see him a few times a week. A man I know little about, except for the few things that came up in our brief exchanges. I believe that he’s in his late 50s; with not one speck of hair on his head and face that wasn’t covered in white and gray; he oddly resembled Pierce Brosnan.
“How ya doin Abigail?”, he asked in a tired but friendly manner.
“And Rosco? Didn’t see em around.”
“He’s cleaning the men’s bathroom.”
It was an odd response, but I didn’t take the time to analyze it, while I scanned cans of pork and beans.
“Hey, uh, Abigail? Ya know any weddings going on in town?”
Another odd thing to say; I took a minute to actually comprehend this one, being that an answer is actually expected out of me, though I didn’t pay much attention to the happenings with the people in town. At most, any gossip I heard was all in the confines of the store, or from Rosco.
“Not that I know of, why do you ask?”
“Well, there’s a woman in a white dress standing in the parking lot, so?”, he said as he pointed in said direction. I instantly turned my head towards the glass doors and windows to see… nothing. In response towards the near empty parking lot, he’d say, “The hell? She was just there a second ago,” while scratching his head and taking a few steps forwards towards the front doors, visibly squinting his eyes as if he was trying to make out the details of a blurry image. I could have fed into his probable paranoia, checked the outside for myself; it did really come to mind, but the fact that I had common sense and didn’t plan on reenacting a horror movie cliche is what stopped me, and should for most others.
He turned his head towards me.
“Do you want a paper bag for 10 cents?”
Before responding, he looked back out into the parking lot, presumably where he once saw this woman in white. He laughed, while he walked back towards the register.
“Uh, no, I’ll just keep to the plastic bags.”
Why do I even bother to ask anymore? The last time I sold a paper bag was the previous winter, about a few dozen of them, and that was to a family who needed kindling for their camping trip. Which is apparently the only use for these crinkling, soggy-ass, tear happy disappointments. The owners have been pushing me to offer them to each and every customer due to what they say is “to promote the use of sustainable materials.” Even though we both know that Marco had accidentally put in an order for paper bags, which weren’t the accident themself, but how he put in an order for 10x the amount that we needed, and the supplier won’t take back the excess. Something I will never let him live down.
Leon had paid in exact change, then he gingerly exited the store, towards his old black camry. You’d think that would be the end of it, but not even a minute after he left, another person walked in, which would be normal if it weren’t for the fact that it was the so-called lady in white. She was unremarkably attractive, the sort of generic beauty you’d see in a magazine, but the more I looked at her, the more I saw the peculiar aspects to her appearance. She didn’t have any shoes, which isn’t as abnormal as one may think; we get plenty of people, generally homeless or hippies who don’t wear shoes who come in for reasons like warmth, or to spend what little they have on the necessities, though in the case of hippies, they loiter or buy up the produce section, but this was a woman in a perfectly pristine white gown.
I think she caught me looking at her, because the next thing I know, she was staring right back at me. Her eyes were bloodshot, and if it weren’t for the fact that I could see the slight tint of brown in her irises, I’d think them to be pitch black. She probably thought it was rude of me to stare at her and was currently retaliating by throwing her own glare back at me, or possibly she was a drug addict or mentally unstable. Either way, I’d treat her with some form of caution. It’s like messing with a grizzly bear: you either get a response that tells you they don’t care or possibly get your face ripped off.
I thought it best to leave her be, since she technically wasn’t breaking any laws, except for the fact that we require customers to wear some form of foot wear when entering the store. She was shoeless and tracking in dirt, which will be Rosco’s fight, and not mine, once he finishes his battle with the men’s bathroom. Actually he has been in there for a while now.
To think of it, when I looked out into the parking lot earlier, the only cars out there were mine, Rosco’s and Leon’s. Where did she actually fucking come from? The rational first thought would be that she walked in from somewhere around town, this store may be remote enough to where the property is surrounded by trees, but it is at the very edge of town. It should take at least 40, maybe 50 minutes to jog here from the closest piece of civilization. The layout of the town is very weird, but still, technically the store fell on the very edge. For her to walk barefoot through a woodland area all the way to the store made no sense, and even if it did, why at night? Anyone with a brain, especially a local, wouldn’t have walked around at night with all the shenanigans going on; from drunk hunters who can’t tell the difference between a buck and person in the dark, all the way to wild animals cracked up on blood thirst or actual narcotics. It’s why most people in this town carry, legally or not, but it didn’t look like she had anything on her but her dress, but then again you never know.
I was tempted to call the deputy, especially after Leon and the possibility that this woman isn’t in her right mind. Before I could think any further on that option, I felt someone watching me, like eyes were burrowing into my general direction. At the time I had been filling out a sizable crossword puzzle that Rosco handed me at the start of the shift, believing it could dull my boredom since he knew marijuana and the plethora of drugs he had were not an option, and he still tried to offer me some. So far, I just started and I’m almost done. I don’t get why people have issues or trouble figuring out crossword puzzles; maybe the lack of people in this town that can read beyond an 8th grade level, an achievement I'm sure somewhere around the country. Without moving my head away from the crossword, I looked up towards the source of this feeling, and there she was, at the edge of an aisle, occupied with whatever product was stocked there. Though that’s not what unnerved me about it, not the fact that she kept staring at me, but the way she was fucking doing it.
This lady’s head did a full 180 degree turn towards me while the rest of her body just acted like she had simply picked through what I could then see were cans of dog food. I don’t think she blinked once either; her eyes looked more red, but it was sorta hard to tell from this distance.
Most people, I’d believe, would possibly start losing their shit at that moment, or they’d be silently mentally screaming, but again, she hadn’t done anything wrong but act like Regan MacNeil. Ever deal with a winged cow? Probably not, but all I'll say for now is that it was way more horrifying and was far more frightening to deal with. I looked back down at the crossword, more intent on finishing it, than having to bare witness to whatever the good golly fuck that was.
About a few minutes later, a shadow fell upon me. I looked up to see the lady, this time without a physical interpretation of the daily life of an owl. She placed a can of dog food on the counter, and smiled, still giving me that unmoving stare. I didn’t even hear her walk over, I think my mind sorta zoned in on the crossword a bit. That may explain why I didn’t hear her, but still. I put on my best good-employee facade, giving my own slight but noticeable smile as I set the crossword and pen in front of me in a little cubby under the register. I grabbed the can as I asked and looked at her without making more direct eye contact, “Is that all Ma’am?”.
She tilted her head, then took a long minute to respond, “Yes, I think so, maybe, no, perhaps, hmmmm yes.”, she spoke with a voice that was akin to a lullaby mixed with a smoker’s cough. Her voice was raspy but gentle, like she had choked down a couple dozen lit cigarettes a day for the last month. The way she spoke made me think she might have been drunk, but she sounded playful, and I didn’t smell any alcohol on her breath, a scent I’m quite familiar with. So, great, I interacted with a psychotic supernatural entity, which I’ll be honest if I counted every time I interacted with either, I would have several hundred nickels on hand.
“Good, hope your shopping went well.”
She growled in response, the sort of deep but quiet growl that can’t come from a human being, and if it did, I’d have to give her props on her mimicry.
I looked at her, then for the first time she stopped staring at me, the lady looked down, while she patted her sides. She did so for a few seconds and then looked back at me, staring, while she opened her mouth. Her jaw unhinged into a big smile, further than what I would believe to be feasible. She placed her hand inside, as she slowly pulled out a crumpled green piece of paper. The lady held it out towards me, while her mouth slowly closed, I could vaguely tell that it was an old dry 5 dollar bill. I was aware that trying to take the dollar from her would be stupid, on so many levels in fact, that I don’t think there’s a number to describe it, but what else could I do that wouldn’t irritate her. I awkwardly tried to take it from her hand, but the second my hand touched the dollar, she grabbed my wrist with inhuman speed, tightly, so tight in fact that it started to hurt.
“Hey, what the fuck?”, I had said without realizing that I had broken Marco's rule about profanity around customers. Maybe I’d get off Scott free, but Marco would probably point out my use of vulgar language over the low-budget stereotypical horror movie character that technically assaulted me, if I were to bring up that detail. I tried to yank my wrist out of her death grip, and the thought of punching her straight in the jaw came to mind, but I'd felt like that would have been a useless endeavor.
She let go of the dollar while she held on to my wrist, putting a finger up to her mouth, “Shhh”. She leaned in, while she looked me straight in the eyes, her blood shot ridden eyes were worse than before. She said to me, “You know them, don’t you, the man, the man in my head?”.
“The man, a grin so wide, his teeth so white, their eyes so bright, skin so pale, a body so thin, he peers within, sees all your sins, knows your fears, don’t you know him?”
“I don’t know who you're talking about, but Ma’am, please let go of my wrist, don’t make me call the deputy.”
She started to laugh, it wasn’t creepy, more uncontrolled and joyful, but she abruptly stopped, to say “Oh, you don’t know, it’s okay.” She leaned in over the counter, to the point where she was an inch away from my face.
She let go of my wrist, and stood back straight, staring at me once again, while I rubbed my wrist. I wanted to get this interaction done with, so I opened the register, and placed the 5 in, then I handed her change back. She didn’t take it, and walked away without the can of dog food, somehow leaving a larger trail of dirt along her path than previously. The lady walked straight out of the store, out into the parking lot, onto the road, past the tree line where I couldn’t see her. The dark almost seemed to envelop her, like all light in that single point ceased to exist for a moment to shroud her exit.
My attention was on my wrist now. I rubbed the bruise in the shape of a hand print that encapsulated it, I contemplated on calling Deputy Heller again. It was already over and it wasn’t like he could have done anything, other than make a report. By the time he would have gotten here, she would have been long gone, who’s to say she isn’t already in the wind. Wouldn’t hurt, though my wrist sure did, also who in the flying fuck was she refering to.
A loud “BANG” made me jump, before my anxiety was relieved when I heard a male voice say.
“Holy Reverse Grail, that was a shit show!”
Rosco had slammed the men’s bathroom door open. He walked into my line of sight, with stained rubber gloves on and a plunger in hand. A lit blunt hanged from his mouth but a bit of a frown to go along with it. The plunger was devastated, as it looked like it had lost a fight with a wolf using a paper shredder.
Rosco said in his version of an annoyed voice, which was weird excitement mixed with a slightly angry raised voice, “It was like Nagasaki had a baby in there! Look at what the toilet did to my plunger Gordon. I don’t know what in the two hells happened there, but I bet it was one of those workers that came in here earlier, or maybe that fat truck driver, maybe it was Oscar!”
He stopped walking, looked down at the dirt covered trail in front of his feet, and then proceeded to look back at me, his head slightly tilted down to look at what I assume was my wrist.
“What did I miss, and do I need to get Louise?”
Seems like we both had our own traumatic ordeals tonight, but what’s more enlightening at the moment is the fact that I now knew what Leon meant.
