Fear And Loathing At The Convenience Store

FLASHBACK — August '08:

It's 3:46 am and I'm on my way home from a relatively early night of poker when I'm suddenly overwhelmed by a raving case of the munchies.

"We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the drugs began to take hold..." — Hunter Thompson

Luckily, I live on Long Island, where there is conveniently located, roughly every 4 yards along any given stretch of highway, a 24-hour 7-11. I stop into the first one I spot. A taxi and an Entenmann's delivery truck are the only other vehicles in the parking lot, so I pull up right in front of the entrance and am about to sprint out when I realize I'm not wearing any shoes.

...ok, if you must know, a smoke break between games had turned into a round of Ultimate Frisbee in the dark on the front lawn and my socks had gotten wet so I removed them, and — as everyone knows — wearing sneakers without socks gives you the cooties, so I wisely decided to spend the rest of the evening barefoot.

However, I am now in dire circumstances. The risk must be dismissed and my task undertaken.

Of course, because I'm now so close to my ultimate destination I can almost smell it (actually, I probably could smell it — it being a 7-11 and all), it takes me about half an hour to get my laces unknotted and the damn things back on my feet. It appears hand-eye coordination is one of the first faculties to become affected in these sorts of situations.

Inside, it is glaringly bright and absolutely freezing. I assume heightened sensitivity to light and temperature are the next symptons to present themselves. I beat a determined path for the snack aisle. I am on a mission, and, for some reason, I am under the impression that only Fritos will do.

So, of course, at first glance, I don't see them anywhere.

"Ok, don't panic," I think. Or say out loud. There's no one else in the store, so who knows at this point. "They have to be here somewhere. Someone always brings them in when we have holiday parties at work, so you know they exist. And by that conclusion, they should, in all likelihood, be here somewhere." But what if that anonymous work-person had just stockpiled a whole bunch of bags before 7-11 discontinued carrying them — then what do I do? Are Dipsy-Doodles the same thing? No, they used to sell them in the cafeteria in high school; those things sucked...I wonder if that same old lady still works in the senior cafe...hey, was Mr. Barone gay? Did we ever find out? Whoa, stop! Focus! Task at hand!

I decide to apply some scientific principles to my search and methodically scrutinize each and every shelf, bag by bag, until, finally, I come upon them, second shelf from the bottom, hidden behind some Cheetos. Not even the good kind, but those mutant-looking crunchy ones. Gross.

The guy behind the counter rings up my purchase, and I manage to count out 3 singles and hand them over to him without incident when I notice he's wearing surgical gloves. The only reason I can presently fathom for this is that he's just brutally murdered the real 7-11 clerk in the back room and I've just happened to walk into the store right in the midst of it and interrupted the grisliness.

Either that, or he's been handling the chili cheese dogs. Those things are lethal.

Seconds or decades later, lying in bed with my hard-earned snack and my entire stack of Weetzie Bat books, I think to myself (or say out loud), "Man, I can't believe I haven't done this since college...have I ever been missing out!"