On the Other Side of the Counter

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3:00 p.m. 

I walk through the doors and hear that familiar ding. My co-worker Chelsey says, “Hello. Welcome to Loaf N’ Jug.” It’s a habit, which anyone who has worked here for a year or longer has. That combined with “Do you have a rewards card?” make up the uninspiring soundtrack of my shifts. I say my greeting and make my way to the back room to clock in. The back room is cramped, making even a skinny person like me feel claustrophobic. I fall into the black office chair and clock in on the old computer. I don’t get up right away. I enjoy the black office chair because it’s the last time I can sit for the next eight hours. Unfortunately, I can’t spend more than a few moments on that chair. 

I get out of the chair and walk out of the back room. I walk behind the counter.  

The door dings and I involuntarily spew out the greeting they pay me to say. “Welcome to Loaf N’ Jug. How are you doing today?” 

The customer bluntly says, “A can of Copenhagen Longcut.” 

I reach my stringy arms over to the tobacco, flip out the can, and ring it up. All the while I imagine the conversation that could have happened if the man wasn’t such an ass. 

“Welcome to Loaf N’ Jug. How are you doing today?” I would say like normal. 

“Good. How are you?” He would politely ask. 

“I’m good, thanks for asking. What can I get for you?” 

“Copenhagen Longcut, please.” He would politely ask. 

Chelsey mocks the guy as he walks out. We talk about school, my girlfriend, and gossip about our other co-workers for a few minutes. Chelsey was always fine picking up the extra minutes of pay. She had been with the company for five years. Any person who walked through that door could mistake her for a college dropout. Someone who decided to work at a gas station for the rest of their life. Chelsey already has a degree in secondary education. She has had that degree for a year now. I’ve always wondered if she is scared of change. This job, as boring as it is, is safe making it easy to get trapped. Chelsey waves goodbye and the door dings as she walks out. 

5:00 p.m. 

I begin taking off the nasty food from the warmer. Sometimes, depending on who worked before me, it would be really old. Not everyone was eager to make food every four hours because it was a pain. Around that time every day, Eve walks in. Eve is a very nice lady in her fifties or so. She only worked four days a week, for about four hours. She works for the University doing something in the school of law. I’m sure she told me one time or another. She originally started working here for some extra cash. A few weeks ago she took a trip to Australia and visited her daughters. After the trip, she decided she enjoyed the extra cash. She was always very sweet, and she let me do my schoolwork on the job. 

The door dings again and a regular is bombarded with a “hello” from both Eve and me. The customer is an old man who is probably in his seventies. During my shift alone he probably comes in two to three times. He brings his cup and fills it up with Diet Coke. He brings it to the counter. I say, “Don’t worry about it, have a good night,” and wave him off. The old man is very grateful, every single time. I do this many times a day. Sometimes people are so grateful they say something like, “You made my day! Thank you so much! You are so sweet!” If they only knew that I gave almost everyone free refills. I don’t do this because I’m kind. I do this because it’s one less person I have to help. I’ve never got in trouble for it. I suppose until I do I will continue to give out free refills. 

6:00 p.m. 

The door dings and a friend from high school walks in. A friend that I haven’t kept in touch with. I always feel awkward when someone I know walks in. Suddenly it’s like everything is different. I feel self-conscious about my uniform. I’m suddenly aware of the stench of stale grease radiating from it. It drowns me in black because it's two sizes too big. He walks to the counter and asks me how I’ve been. I tell him nothing different than what I tell the other customers. That I’m good. I might ask him what he has been up to, or if he is going to school. These conversations are always tip-toeing a line, like a gymnast on a balance beam. On one side I continue the pattern I do with every customer. On the other hand, I know this guy, somewhat better than every other customer. So, I dread having to ask for his rewards card. It is a reminder of the strange routine I’m in all day. A conversation might be flowing between the two of us, and still, before I take their money, I must ask, “Do you have a King Soopers card?” It’s just one line but it separates me and him, like the counter between us. It is a constant reminder of our roles. 

7:00 p.m. 

Eve has just finished cleaning the coffee pots. I’m grateful every day that she cleans them. It’s a tedious task that requires carrying the strangely shaped coffee makers back and forth across the store to rinse them out in the backroom. 

The door dings and in walks a girl. She is cute. She seems to be in a good mood. She asks for some cigarettes and I ask for her I.D. The I.D. is valid and she leaves the store. She unwraps the plastic from the cigarettes and starts smoking as she walks to her car. 

“You want to do the cooler, or should I?” Eve asks. 

“I’ll do it,” I say, and walk back to the cooler. A lot of my co-workers don’t like the cooler. They don’t like the cold, but I appreciate it. The store is usually hot. Between the fast food grills, the coffee pots, and the fact none of us can change the temperature, sometimes the store is suffocating. I enjoy going into the cooler. As soon as I touch the metal handle and open it up, a sense of relief washes over me. I step in, and it’s like I’m in a different place. A world of silence. A world of cold. In here I’m no longer an employee behind a counter constantly being watched by the cameras all around and the piercing eyes of every customer that walks in. 

The cooler is very organized. This is because my boss, Bruce, loves being in the cooler as well. I think Bruce is a bit like me. We both enjoy the escape from the busy store, and the cooler is the only place we can do that while being at work. I turn off the cooler fans and put my headphones in. I’m good to go. As my fingers numb from touching the cold cans and bottles, and my nose starts to drip, I lose track of time. This is another reason why I enjoy the cooler. Where I stand at the cash register there is a clock, it’s about eye level with me, and sitting to my left. I usually can’t help but glance at it in between customers. Watching the clock seemed to slow down time. Keeping my eyes off the clock seemed to do just the opposite. 

By the time I finish stocking the cooler, I want to be out of it. The cooler is like a bittersweetness. It feels great, but slowly starts to create sharp pains in my fingers. The cold can be too much, even though it’s my release. 

9:00 p.m. 

The door dings and Eve has left. She always leaves at nine, and though I enjoy working with her, I’m glad she is gone. I have to make small talk with many people throughout the day. It’s nice when I don’t have to make it with the person standing next to me as well. My legs have started to hurt. My knee brace can only do so much. I lean against the counter and hope that no customers come in for a while. In a half hour, I have to do the thing I dread from the moment I walk in the door. I have to clean the roller grills. While leaning against the counter I watch the roller grills spin hot dogs around in a circle of grease. I throw all the hot dogs away in the trash. I can only think of how wasteful we are being while doing so. I grab my sanitation rags and begin wiping them down. The first contact is always the worst. I pull away the rag and it has changed from a pearly white to a soggy, grease-filled, brown. It takes me no longer than twenty minutes to clean. It used to take me much longer, but it’s one of those things you get faster at with practice. 

The door dings, and I wipe off my gross hands with a rag as I walk to the counter. It’s the same girl from earlier, but she looks much different. Tears ruined her makeup revealing a different person underneath. She seems to be upset. She asks for the same brand of cigarettes, but this time she is very rude. I don’t question it, everyone has bad things happen, and it’s not in my job description to pry. However, I imagine why she was crying as she walked out the door. She still unwraps the plastic and takes out a cigarette. She starts puffing away as she gets into her run-down car. It could have been anything that upset her for all I know. She could have gotten into a fight with her friend or lost a loved one. The possibilities are endless. I’m just a man who stands behind the counter. 

10:00 p.m. 

I’m exhausted and more than ready to get off. My giddy customer service skills are running low, and I’m getting short on patience. A couple of younger guys walk in. I can tell they have big heads just from the way they walk. They come to the counter, gracelessly put their items on the counter, and ask for the cigars. I ask for the I.D. and they hand it to me. 

“Why aren’t you ever smiling?” The leader of the pack asks 

“Long day is all,” I respond. 

I finish checking them out and as they walk out the door I hear the guy say, “That was just bad customer service.” 

My fist turns into a ball as I keep my anger in. Bad customer service, I think to myself. It’s easy for a customer to come in and criticize me, because I’m at work, which means I’m not allowed to be having a bad day. It means that I’m not allowed to frown every once in a while or be tired after a long day’s work. I might get to see the many faces of those on the other side of the counter, but I’m only allowed to show one. They don’t know that just earlier today I debated dropping out of college once again. The struggle between forcing myself to do something I’m not sure I’m made for and staying in school because it would be better in the long run takes its toll. I think about what my life would be like if I dropped out. Would I end up working at this gas station for the rest of my life? The thought makes me nauseous. 

The door dings and I put a smile on my face. It’s the same old man from earlier, coming to get his last Diet Coke for the night. When his back is to me my smile falls into a frown. And when he turns around to come to the register it picks itself back up. He comes up to the register and I wave him off, “Have a good night,” I say. 

With a grateful smile, he says “You too.” 

The door dings. 

11:00 p.m. 

The door dings and the cold air rushing through my hair is a signal of my escape. I’ll be back tomorrow. It’ll be another day of greasy hotdogs, forcing smiles, and door dinging.