#revivbur

“It’s Wednesday, my dude!” I burst into the store door, an empty disposable cup of coffee in my hand.

“It is,” Wilbur confirmed, putting his phone down on the counter as he looked up at me. His face contorted into an odd expression before he gave a small smile. “Why does that matter? You religious or something?”

I give him a quick shake of my head. “No, definitely not.” I slide behind the counter and plop myself onto the stool.

“Really?” he muses, “then what’s with the dressy clothes?”

I look down at my attire, it was true that I didn’t normally wear anything this nice to work (not to say that my clothes weren’t nice in the first place.)

I find myself going quiet at his question. Wilbur didn’t mind, he just passively nodded before picking up his phone to check the time. That was something I admired about my and Wilbur’s friendship. We both had shit that went on in our lives, but neither of us ever asked about that. We decided nonverbally to keep our shit lives and our friendships separate. He didn’t know much about my life outside of work and I didn’t know much about his, and that’s how we liked it. So Wilbur didn’t pressure me to tell him how the rent was getting harder and harder to pay or how I had an interview for a second job during my lunch break.

“So,” Wilbur spoke up, “whose turn is it to restock the shelves?”

I looked over at him and groaned. He had a cheeky smile on his face because he knew whose turn it was.

Laughing he pointed over at me, “It’s your turn,” he said in a sickeningly sing-song voice.

“If you don’t shut up, I will literally kill you.”

“Can we get a threat jar too?” he asked looking over to the nearing full swear jars and poking at my head.

I scrunched my nose at him, “I will bite your finger off.”

He chuckled as he stopped poking my head. Wednesdays were Wilbur’s favorite because it meant he got to mock my pain. Wednesdays are the days that I dread.

“Better get to work stocker!” he said sounding far too amused.

I grumbled before standing up from my stool and heading toward the back storage room and grabbing a clipboard with the list of things that were supposed to be put out today. I glanced over the list before grabbing a few boxes and carrying them out of the storage room.

Wilbur was helping a customer whose card kept declining. I cringed and felt bad for the poor woman because she looked really panicked. Eventually, her card worked and with a sigh of relief, she took her drink and cigarettes and walked out the door.

I begrudgingly popped open the box in my hand, setting it down on the floor, and began to take the contents out of it to place on the shelves.

Wilbur propped himself up on his arm, his cheek resting peacefully on his hand. “You look so funny when you’re mad,” he said with a laugh.

“You just look funny.”

Wilbur reared back in faux pain. “I can’t believe you just said that! I mean I’m genuinely hurt.”

I took my middle finger and shoved it in his direction while my other hand dug through the box.

“Twenty-five cents.”

“It was nonverbal.”

“That still counts,” he argued.

I look up at him, completely fed up with his nonsense for the day and I hadn’t even been at work for an hour. “Wilbur… I am going to shove my twenty-five cents down your throat,” I smile passive aggressively.

Wilbur put a hand on his throat for a moment, seeming lost in thought before laughing. “Why can’t you be angry like this all the time?”

“Because then I have to deal with you being all smiley and sh- crap,” I awkwardly caught myself before swearing.

“Would you rather I be grumpy?” he asked with a smile spread wide across his lips.

“That’s how you normally are.” I crossed my arms and pretended to mope, “I’m Wilbur and I’m writing a book where I’m the main character,” I deepened my voice and mocked him.

He began to laugh and fall into a giggle fit, banging his hand on the counter as he laughed.

I shook my head as I tried not to laugh with him. His laughs were so contagious.

“I’m surprised you didn’t take that chance to make a jab at my height,” he said as he gained some form of composure.

“Nah,” I waved him off, “that’s too easy to make fun of.”

He shook his head, smiling. I looked down at the box on the floor; it was empty. I bent over to pick the box up and chunked it toward the trashcan beside the register counter.

“Careful where you're throwing that thing. You might take someone’s head off.”

“That was the goal, I just missed.”

“Loser. Get better aim,” he teased.

“There’s always the next box… and the next, and the next, and the next,” I shrugged as I turned on my heel, walking toward the storage room again.

This nonsense went on for a few hours. Wilbur poking fun at me and me just grumbling about it or threatening him in various ways. Wednesdays were a very different kind of day for Wilbur and I. Tomorrow it would be back to normal, I’d spend the whole day trying to find ways to make him laugh or listen to him talk about his book, or tell me about how he tried to cook some meal for dinner which almost burnt down his kitchen. I would never admit it to Wilbur, but Wednesdays were my favorite because those were the days he smiled the most.

—

“And what do you think makes you the most qualified for this position?”

I folded my hands in my lap, trying to keep my legs from shaking too nervously. “I’m a great fit for this position because you will never find someone as much of a perfectionist as I am. Those coffees will surely be brewed to absolute perfection.”

“Right…” the interviewer woman wrote something down in her notebook. “And do you have any experience making coffee? And not just the kind you brew at home.”

My breath hitched. “Don’t put too much creamer kiddo, you’ll make yourself sick.”

“But it tastes betteerrrrrr!”

“Yeah, I have coffee making experience.”

“Elaborate please.”

“Me and my parents make frappes and stuff at home.” I would have corrected myself and put all of that in the past tense, but in all honesty, I hadn’t made coffee with my parents since I was little. They never had time for that when I got older.

“Well,” the woman whose name I didn’t care to learn stood up, “It was a pleasure to meet you and you should get an email in about two to three weeks regarding whether you were excepted into the position.” She held out her hand. I stood up and firmly took her hand in mine, her skin cold like ice. I shook her hand once before letting go. Her expression gave me the vibe that she was the type of person to immediately go and sanitize her hands after touching anyone.

I exited the small back room and left the café. “That could have gone better,” I sighed as I sat down in my dingey Chevy truck and slammed the door. I put the key in the engine and started the vehicle as it revved to life (much too loud for my liking).

“Well,” I looked at the small stuffed animal I jokingly kept in my passenger seat, “Looks like it’s time to get back to work.” I blinked hard as I realized I was talking to a stuffed animal and pulled out of the parking lot to head back to work.

A/n

If you can’t tell, brain ain’t braining. It’s late at shit and I’m tired. Aslo if you couldn’t tell tehn I have absolutely no retail experience. I’ve never worked at a gas station so this is probably all super inaccurate.