Will Conway

Dan walked into the 7-11, shoulders slumped, hands in pocket, nothing new for him. Though the boy headed for the refrigerated section, he almost paused in his quest. He could just imagine the flies buzzing around in this place, and there seemed to be a palpable feeling of uncleanliness, as if just walking into the convenient store made the boy dirtier.

Almost paused. Dan really didn’t care one way or the other—he didn’t plan to be in this hellhole long. He opened the door where the milk lay before him, and he held up a jug to scrutinize it under the flickering yellowed lights, testing to see if it was worthy of him. As it sloshed around, Dan disgustedly decided that it was not; chunks swilled around on the inside, making muted thunks on the sides of the jug. Dna just shook his head and walked further down the aisle, a resigned look coming over his features. But as he neared the Gatorade section, he noticed that they had his favorite flavor in stock, so maybe this wasn’t the worst day possible.

But this time he did pause, right before he went to open the refrigerator door. Behind the drinks, in the “Employee Only” section of the fridge, where the stock items were kept, he could see over the tops of the orange Gatorade drinks a man and a woman. They appeared not to notice him, as they in their frenzy had both their eyes closed, and though their employee shirts were still covering their torsos, they rubbed vigorously against one another. Either the boy couldn’t hear them through the glass door, or Dan’s mind simply didn’t want to hear them, but either way he felt disgusted again. Dan spied the woman’s name on the side of her shirt: “Darla.” Well, Darla, you just ruined a perfectly good Gatorade drink.

Dan let out a long sigh as he walked over to the coffee, not once pausing to look back at the two. He came to the coffee area, probably more-than-day-old-coffee still steaming on their burners. But didn’t really care anymore—in fact, he hadn’t really cared when he had walked into the store. The lad grabbed the smallest cup he could find and started pouring one of the flavors into it: “Jamaican Raspberry.” Whatever that meant.

The cup not all the way full, the coffee pot paused in its waterfall of darkness, then went back to the burner. The remaining coffee in Dan’s cup immediately went into the too full trash can, followed soon after by the cup and the dead bug that had been roasting in it. But despite his aggravation, Dan’s thirst was greater, and so, once more, his feet shuffled him to another part of the convenience store. No one else was at the slurpee machine, and the cups looked fairly clean, or at least cleaner than the coffee cups were, and so Dan decided to take his chances. “Banana Spinach,” “Purple Vanilla,” and “Mocha.” Shaking his head for what seemed the thousandth time today, Dan went for the safest-sounding of the flavors, Purple Vanilla. His cup filled to maximum capacity, he found himself relived to finally be able to walk to the register with something for his efforts. He put the slurpee on the counter in front of a grizzled man. Unlike the rest of the store, Dan did not have to imagine the flies here. His nametag read “Bruce.” The big man barked out the cost of the slurpee, and Dan fumbled with the change in his pocket to equal it. The big man growled again when he found that all 1.83 was in coins, but Dan left before he could see further reaction.

The bells tinkled with their off-key notes as Dan left the store, and he made a mental note to remind his girlfriend how much he loved her.