Memoirs of a Cashier #1

A few years ago, I worked in a small gas station known as Travel Store #6, or known in my home town of Washington as Bridge Street. Though blocks from the antique architecture of Main Street, it was also blocks from the ruffian and addict infested Martin Luther King Jr. Street.

Working the 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. shift ensured one thing, I was the first and last stop for the thugs' night time excursions and their customers' hunt for satisfaction. Not only did working here ensure seeing the "businessman", but it also ensured I saw their customers. Nothing seemed to contrast my city better.

While men wearing designer clothes, driving clean new cars, and smoking the most expensive cigarettes came to my store, their customers often wore rags, walked in huddle packs, and shivered in the cold night air. In a strange way, I felt for the hapless players in life's game. Deep down, I knew it was their own fault for giving to temptation, but nothing seemed so forlorn as a shaking, down trodden person browsing the aisles of Bridge Street.

In the night's cold grasp, they walked inside hoping for safety--and they found it. Many times cringing from withdraws and unknown addictions, they handed crinkled, sweaty money over the counter, asking for a pack of New ports or a White Owl cigar. Still, I felt for them.

Most times, the customers and sellers mingled with each other within the confines of eggshell walls, tiled floors, and whirring coolers. Other times, they were separated by the boundaries of want, desperation, and poverty. Each needing the other, but still hoping to one day separate.

It was in this common day bazaar I saw many uncanny things, which gave insight to the actions of others, and I hope, through this series, to share my enlightenment with you.