Life in the West End ain’t what the news makes it look like. On TV, we’re just statistics. Cautionary tales. We’re just people. Living our lives. Trying to survive.
Funny how you can grow up somewhere your whole life and still end up stuck in it— same gas station I grew up running in, now I’m stuck behind the counter at. Welcome to QuickStar
These lights hummed a funeral dirge through my soul. I’m a just a dreadhead working a Just Over Broke. only twenty-three years old, two dollars above minimum wage, and exactly zero hoes.
The register beeped. The coffee machine gurgled.
I scanned a box of Coolport menthol 100s. The customer—a woman in her twenties with with long lashes over honey eyes and a live nicotine addiction. She didn’t look at me.
“NASIR! Stop daydreaming and clean this shi—” Gerald caught himself, pointed at the men’s restroom door, which was slightly ajar, “—bathroom.”
Ain’t no damn way. I just cleaned that restroom. No one else has been in it.
I instantly made the connection.
Puddles of Anarchy. A name I’d given a bathroom demolitions expert who’s been coming here every week for the past 3 months. Urine in the floor… Dookie in the urinal.
Sometimes she gets really crazy and we have to play a game of stinky hide n seek.
Gerald never fixes the cameras because he wants his bonus. Earning the name ‘Baldjobs’ here for sucking up to corporate. Instead we just settled on calling him ‘the watcher’ because he’ll watch you work.
But now I’m eye to eye with… “Puddles of Anarchy”
Her head snapped up. “Excuse me?”
I don’t want to lose this terrible job. But to deny this vengeance would be a sin.
“Sorry. That’ll be seven nineteen.” I say as I put my phone on record.
How could someone so small produce so much? What the actual hell is your diet you nasty Finkle-Pheasant?
I look at her studying her. Personal space is a thing of the past.
“Just thrown off a bit. Rough day. Some trifling poop eater keeps painting that bathroom.” I’m leaning closer now
She paid. But my mind is already cooking her.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Didn’t say you did.”
She snatched her change—dry ones, wet coins left behind—and uncomfortably bolted for the door.
I’d always thought Puddles of Anarchy would be… more. This was my rival for this point in my life.
In my mind you were someone who couldn’t stand the machine or the gears that turn it. Fighting against it the only way you knew how.
It may not have been much. It may not have been the right target
But the blatant brown terrorism was an expression of freedom. The excrement of a madman clogging a system that was never meant to be.
Instead you were some cigarette eating freak
The door dinged. I smiled. That was clean. Minimal effort. Maximum squirm.
I noticed something as she walked out that demanded my attention. She didn’t make it ten feet before I was on the intercom.
“YOU STILL HAVE TOILET PAPER STUCK TO YOUR SHOE! You gonna stop using the bathroom like a raccoon on bath salts?”
Everyone in the gas station looked at her. Some laughing others pulling out their phone.
Nasir looked at the bathroom. Then back at Gerald. Then at the bathroom again.
“Worth it.”
“Worth it?” Gerald laughed—a short, barking sound that contained no actual joy. “Duh, There’s poop in the urinal and you’re the person to call.”
Nothing defeats the unbridled law of FAFO.
Gerald aka the watcher was the manager. Thirty-seven years old. Beer gut. Receding hairline. He looks exactly like the facebook profile for ‘strong opinions’. Sunglasses, hat and complaints about “the youth.” He wore the same gray QuickStar polo every day and believed with his whole damned chest that if poor people just worked harder, they wouldn’t be poor.
He was still poor himself, but I guess he identified as upper-class around us employees?
I grab a mop and start cleaning the abysmal mess of Puddles of Anarchy. She outdid herself this time. Gerald nodded like he’d just accomplished a major achievement.
Making me work is the hardest work he’s done all day.
“That’s better. Presentation is everything. You think Wallomart got to where they are by having trashed bathrooms?”
“Yeah, poop ceilings could never happen at wallomart.”
“Don’t get smart with me. You know what I mean.” Gerald folded his arms. His name tag was slightly crooked. “And by the way, I’m cutting your hours next week. Just Tuesday and Wednesday.”
My stomach dropped. “What? Why?”
“Because I saw you on your phone during the lull yesterday. That’s time theft, Nasir. You’re stealing from this company.”
“I was checking the bus schedule. I’d rather not be stranded here.”
“Transportation can wait. The customer shouldn’t have to.” Gerald puffed out his chest. “When I was your age, I was getting an education. I didn’t have time for phones. I had drive. Ambition. You know what your problem is?”
“Sure you can tell me.”
“Your generation thinks the world owes you something. You want the money without the work. You want the success without the struggle.” He tapped his temple. “It’s a mindset thing. Liberal mindset. Always blaming the system instead of looking in the mirror.”
I stared at him. The watcher had never used his degree. He had never had two jobs. The watcher had been literally given this store’s management position from his uncle who’d known the regional director. Gerald’s entire philosophy could still somehow be summarized as “I got mine, so the rest of you must be lazy.”
But I didn’t say any of that. Because saying that would mean losing more hours. And losing more hours meant not making rent. And not making rent meant sleeping on my brother’s couch. And sleeping on my brother’s couch meant listening to him talk about “the hustle” while selling weed to suburban kids.
So I just nodded.
“You’re right, Watcher. I’ll do better.”
“Damn right you will.” He clapped me on the shoulder—too hard, intentionally—and walked back to the office to do whatever managers did when they weren’t managing. Probably look at Facebook. Probably troll libtards online.
Guess I’ll go on break
Pt 2 Cold world
The break room was a reminder of don’t get too comfortable. Clocks on every wall, an old fridge and a television that seems to lack a remote. Just then, the old television mounted in the corner of the break room flickered to life. Gerald must have turned it on from his office. He loved having the news playing during his shifts—probably wanted to torture us or cringe to death with misinformation. Maybe he wanted someone to argue with.
The anchor was mid-sentence. “—the Poverty Law Center has been indicted for allegedly funneling government grant money to organizations classified as hate groups. “
Gerald wandered out of his office, coffee mug in hand, and stood in front of the TV like it was a fireplace. His eyes lit up.
“That’s my guy,” he said, pointing at the screen where a congressman had appeared for a statement. “See? That’s a real man. Speaks his mind.”
The congressman on screen adjusted his tie. His face was serious, almost somber. “These are serious allegations, and we take them seriously. However, I think it’s important that we don’t rush to judgment. What this really tells us is that we need to re-evaluate how government funding is distributed at every level. Which is why I’m proposing a new bipartisan commission to—”
The interviewer tried to interrupt. “But sir, the indictment specifically—”
“I hear you, I hear you. And that’s a valid question. But let me ask you this: isn’t it better that we spend our tax dollars in AMERICA!” The congressman smiled. A practiced, warm smile. “We can’t let ourselves get distracted by one story when there’s so much work to be done.”
The interviewer blinked. The people in the background—staffers, reporters, a few confused citizens who’d wandered into frame—looked genuinely baffled. You could see it on their faces: Did he just change the subject? Did he really just pivot from an indictment like this is supporting american families?
But the congressman kept talking, and nobody stopped him. Nobody shouted. Nobody walked out. They just stood there, wrapped around his finger, nodding along.
Gerald chuckled. “See? That’s a leader. Knows how to stay on message.”
I looked at the screen. Then at Gerald. Then back at the screen.
“You know what? I know you’re trolling me. I’ll just let you have it man.”
Nobody cared. Not really. Not about the money. Not about the hate groups. Not about the families disappearing from their locked homes. Not about the gates or the monsters or any of it.
The only thing he cared about was having this conversation with someone who couldn’t stop him. I’ve got to have more dignity than entertaining a guy who is lying to my face with a smile.
I finished my honey bun. Checked my bank account: $43.12. Rent due in four days: $850.
I laughed. It was the only appropriate response.
Pt 3 In the morning
Alexis Ali clocked in at 6 AM. She was twenty-two, fine as hell. A single-mother with a kid who deserved a better living than what QuickStar paid for. She wore her hair in a curly ponytail that bounced when she walked, and she smelled like vanilla and something floral that I couldn’t name but wanted to breathe forever.
She’s also way out of my league. Not because of looks—I’m not ugly, I don’t think, though the dark circles under my eyes don’t help. But because Alexis has drive. Alexis has goals. Alexis is a creative, an aspiring poet and writer, she wants her kids to have a better life than she did.
Me? I’m a dude with secrets and trauma. A phone full of conspiracy theories that nobody believes. I’m a dude that fears a government that would hurt any of us for corporations. Because of that I’m a dude that doesn’t have much money or many friends and I’m barely keeping it together.
But Alexis treats me like I’m normal. Like I’m just some dude. She doesn’t know about my past—I’ve never told her. She thinks I’m just the quiet night shift guy who keeps to himself and reads a lot on his phone.
“You look like shit,” she said, sliding behind the counter.
“I had to clean it! We finally caught Puddles of Anarchy!”
“What that nasty ahh dude look like?”
“Some old- young looking woman, can’t make this stuff up”
“What did you do?” Her face becomes scared at the possibilities because she knows me “Oh god, what did YOU do??”
“She’s on Toktik Getting views now”
“Ugh whatever. I’m serious. You ain’t sleep at all??”
“Worth it?”
Alexis laughed. It was a real laugh—not the customer service kind. “You need to take better care of yourself, Naz. All that overthinking is gonna drive you crazy.”
“You think I’m not a nut?? You got balls”
She hip-checked me out of the way and started prepping the coffee machine. Our arms brushed.
She glanced over at The watcher’s office. He was in there watching the news again, probably salivating over some congressman’s pivot. Alexis made a face.
“God, that man is just made of the ick. You see how he looks at me? Almost as bad as he looks at those suits”
“Ewww, You his type?? How!?”
“No boy, The ones he don’t like.” She lowered her voice. “That lame just gets caught up in the kayfabe.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Kayfabe?”
“Yeah. Like wrestling. It’s not all real. But the fans go along with it for the stakes. Or to protect the business.” she shakes her head “The good guys, the bad guys, the drama—it’s all scripted. But maybe they eat it up because they want to believe somebody’s fighting for them.”
I laughed. “That’s actually… yeah. Maybe.” I look at the shelf and I’m reminded of how invested he may be. “I guess it ain’t no rules against cutting a promo in a rat race, right?.”
“See, you get it.” She leaned against the counter. “I think for some people, it’s just not that serious. Like, you can love a good bad guy. That’s a heel. And if there’s someone you don’t like, you want the bad guy to win. Troll them. Lie, cheat, talk trash. It’s just trolling. Just kayfabe.”
“And the people who actually get hurt?”
Alexis’s smile faded. “They ain’t watching the show. They’re the ones the show’s about. Who needs they opinion??”
I looked at her. And neither of us could keep a straight face. We busted out laughing. Our inside joke at this point is solving the world’s problems in a conversation. So much we see now is predictable corruption. The most terrible, heartless and greedy outcomes from corporations and It’s become a running gag for us.
We shared a couple laughs and jokes but I looked at her. I Really looked at her. She was more than just a pretty face and a sharp tongue. She’d seen things. Felt things. The same way I had.
She seen me looking and I look away instinctively. I know she’s got a dude at home. Raising her lil kid.
She turned to face me, leaning against the table with her arms crossed. Her eyes were dark and warm and way too intense for 6:15 in the morning. “You ain’t got no hoes huh?”
I blinked. “What?”
“Hoes. Women. Females. You gottem?”
“I—why would you ask me that?”
“Because I’m curious~.” She grinned. “You ain’t always my vibe. You just never talk about dating. You never talk about anyone. So I’m trying to figure out if you’re secretly a player or if you just have zero game.” she playfully sideeyes me “You ain’t gay is you~??”
So this is her game? Now that I think about it she’s not usually this close.
“So you single now or sum?” I asked, I just hit her with a pivot The watcher’s slimy self would be proud of “What can my game do for you?”
“Uh-uh.” Her grin widened. “So you just a virgin?”
“Virgin is a strong word.”
“What word would you use?”
“Un-distracted. I’m undistracted.”
“Distracted by lips and thighs or Puddles of Anarchy?”
The thing about Alexis was that she made it look easy. The flirting. The banter. The way she leaned into your space like she belonged there. It felt natural. Effortless.
But I knew something… different. Nothing was effortless. My heart skipped a beat. A different kind of fear overtook me. Trauma.
“Some things are deeper.”
To create a structure of any sort, to build a home. You start with the foundation. But something broke in me long ago. I’ve believed for a decade that everything there is to build here had no foundation. Relationships built on the sand made of lies.
She laughed that audacious laugh again.
We stood there in comfortable silence for a moment. The coffee machine finished its cycle. Outside, the sun was fully up now, painting the parking lot in shades of gray and orange.
“You sound like you wanna be different now” she said quietly.
“and?”
“Maybe that’s good” She picked up her coffee cup and tapped it against mine. “To staying un-distracted?”
I snorted. “That’s a depressing toast.” My head slumping
“The best we can do until you open up.” She took a sip. “Still a vibe”
Then she touched her forehead on mine as she looked up at me.
“Yeah,” I said. “Still a vibe”
And for a moment—just a moment—the cheese puffs didn’t matter. The news didn’t matter. Gerald didn’t matter.
Only our touch. Only Alexis, standing there like she belonged.
I didn’t know it then, but that was the last good moment I’d have for a very long time.
Because the peace is gone the moment I ask myself when I last felt this kind of touch, the memory of a girl giving me turquoise panties and a promise of a future, a girl who disappeared into light.
Away from the face of this earth.