I came across this amusing journal snippet from about seven years ago. I’m guessing I’d skipped my jug of coffee that day:
A storm of desperation burned through my mind like a tornado of ice. My thoughts, usually steady, swirled in a vortex focused on one thing: caffeine. Guided as if on its own, my pickup drove up the University Avenue hill and passed the Mall. I turned left on State Street, pulling a sharp right into the Chevron parking lot and stopping beside a gas pump, the nozzle obscured by an “out of order” sign.
The door chimed as I walked inside. I was met with a loud “Greetings!” from the attendant.
Nodding with a mumble, I walked to the back wall and opened the cooler doors. Trembling, a 32 oz. bottle of Mountain Dew appeared in my hands. I put it on the counter and fished my wallet from my jacket pocket. The attendant picked it up, and scanning it said, ”I prefer vowels with my beverages.”
He looked at me with intense eyes, expecting a reply. What was he talking about? Not wanting to engage in conversation, I nodded in agreement. ” Yea, me too,” I said. He frowned slightly as he swiped my card. Either this answer was unsatisfactory, or he didn’t like me and my drink. Scribbling my name on the receipt, I wished him a good day and walked out into the chilly afternoon.
Three weeks later, I pulled into the Chevron and stopped in front of the same inoperable gas pump. I opened the door, and a mid-twenty something clerk behind the counter looked at me, smiling, “Greetings!” I recognized him as the same guy I’d met the last time I was here. He stood behind the counter, leaning against the cigarette display with his hands behind his back. As I walked to the cooler and grabbed my drink, I sensed a different energy from him than one usually gets from a gas station attendant. Most of the time you get a thinly veiled mask of irritation at the colossal bother you are imposing on them by buying candy and soda from their store. Ben, as his name tag said, stood motionless like a monk in meditation, smiling with a confidence that comes only from someone with mastery over themselves and their environment.
“Just this,” I said, setting the cold bottle on a plastic mat advertising free points rewards.
“Mountain Dew?” Ben said. “What happened to the other letters?” He scanned the bottle, but instead of setting it back down on the counter, he looked at it and frowned. “How do thou pronounce this?” he asked, pointing to the letters ‘mtn’ on the label.
“Mmmtn,” I said, drawing out the ‘m’ as if expecting something delicious. He laughed and I smiled.
“Yea, I prefer vowels with my beverages.” I said.
A glint of joy appeared in Ben’s eyes. “That’s what I was going to say, you bastard.” He grinned with a look of instant camaraderie. “They spell it out in Canada,” he continued. “They use the same green background and crystal pillar design, but they actually spell out the word mountain.”
“Yea, I don’t understand why it’s different here,” I said. “It’s much more satisfying to read when there aren’t any missing letters.”
I swiped my card and two receipts spit out of the register. Ben nodded his head. “Absolutely!” Grinning like a schoolboy, he handed over both slips of paper, one dangling underneath the other.
“Pen?” I say, looking around the counter.
“Oh, I guess you should sign one of these.” Ben reached behind the counter and grabs a pen from atop a clipboard.
I sign my name and hand over the receipt. “Thanks.”
Ben grins as if he’s just found a long-lost friend. “Bye.”
The door chimed as I walked into the afternoon sun.
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