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Convenient Work.

I imagine the job of a convenience store clerk must be quite interesting. Granted, it’s not really glamorous unless you’re big on posing for the security camera. Oh, there’s the chance that the place will be held up, you’ll survive and get interviewed by the television news team “he pointed his gun, right at me! And I saved the customer!” But in reality, it’s not that glamorous.

But I bet it’s interesting.

For example, just a few moments ago I went to the Byrne Dairy dressed as a lesbian. It wasn’t on purpose, mind you, but I threw on a pair of workout pants, a “wife beater” t-shirt and some faux birkenstocks and went and picked up a bottle of milk. All I was missing was a mullet. Looking back on it all, I should have probably driven the Jeep to complete the whole ensemble, but when you’re having a milk and lottery ticket crisis, you don’t really have time to think these things through.

Convenience store clerks must see all sorts of get-ups on their customers. There’s the yuppy straight out of 1985 picking up whatever his wife phoned into his office. There’s the boozer picking up his 32-oz cans of Schlitz or something equally romantic. The college student picking up his Big Gulp for his upcoming all nighter. The soccer mom, kids in tow, letting them pick out ice cream cones to shut them the hell up while they’re riding in the back of the mini van.

All these slices of Joe Public must be wearing some interesting outfits.

Back in my single, bar disc-jockey days, I used to stop at the local Nice ‘n Easy in my slut pants. These gems were ripped out from the crotch all the way to the knees in all the right places, my decency being preserved by a suggestion of underwear. That must have given the clerk an eyeful on a few occasions.

I’m sure there’s people that go in the middle of the night, when no one is looking mind you, to buy some Ho-Ho’s, Ding Dings or to carry on their affair with Little Debbie. They can’t sleep due to lack of chocolate, so they throw on whatever is lying close to the bed and head down to the local Wawa or whatever. Hair standing straight up. Dragon breath. Eyes glazed over. “More empty calories, more empty calories.”

The only patron I wouldn’t want to see as a convenience store clerk was one with a ski mask. I think that might make me nervous. Unless it’s the yuppy on his way to Killington.