The Yellow Store

Ode to a gas station//Sympathy for the craft beer drinker

Hello! a couple quick announcement: I’ve got new stories in DUMBO Press and God’s Cruel Joke.

Now on to the show!

stolen from Google Reviews

A line of pot-bellied young men stands before the craft beer fridge. They are dressed similarly, and only one among them is clean shaven. Some of these men have filled their souls with mind while others have done little more than fill their bodies with beer; neither path has led to the ability to make a quick decision before the craft beer fridge.

Shall we describe the fridge as we wait for the first to make a move? It is located along the back wall of a rather distinctive gas station, colloquially known as The Yellow Store thanks to its garish paint job, but its signage is topped by the insignia of ExxonMobil.

There is a single entrance, located directly in front of the cashier station. The cashiers here are liable to exert a bit more of their personality than is typically allowed from a gas station attendant, and the building itself seems to be somehow fighting back against the hazy liminal fog most gas stations are cast into, in part, perhaps, because it is not along any major highway. Instead, it is located downtown, only blocks from a college campus, and its gas pumps are actually a bit of a pain to maneuver to in anything larger than a sedan, so rather than a transitory station for travelers, it is treated more as a corner or convenience store by locals, although if you are overheard referring to it as a bodega the attendant is liable to ask you to leave.

“Bodega? Get yer carpetbagging ass out of here.”

Near the entrance, there is a large trough filled with ice. It is here that some of the clientele come to graze. The ice-filled trough is home to oil-can beers, brownbaggers, bad day bookends, and loosies from the cooler. While it is not widely advertised, The Yellow Store does allow for mix-and-matching, or single can purchases. Once a six-pack is disturbed of its natural balance, the remainder are dumped into the trough.

There are the usual gas station snacks placed on a pair of aisles crammed into the center of the tiny store, but most of the space is given over to canned goods and other quick meals, for another unadvertised offering of the store is that there is a microwave in the backroom, and the attendant will let preferred customers use it to heat up their purchases. Not that any of the young men before the craft beer fridge would ever deign to heat up a can of off-brand Ravioli in a backroom microwave—

What is this? We have movement! They had stood still for so long that they were almost becoming part of the backdrop, but now one is opening the fridge and making physical contact with a can, but no. False Alarm. It was only in search of ABV. At under 5%, this beer will not receive any further consideration. If ever the store manages to sell out of their stock, it will not be ordered again.

Of the young men before the beer fridge, only two could accurately be described as having confidence. One is of the mind-filled-soul variety, and the other comes from the beer-bloated-body school. Three of the other four grow in confidence in perfect relation to the number of beers consumed, but the final one seems devoid of it in all scenarios, though he is, in fact, the first to make a decision, spotting a particular IPA for which he has been searching. However, it is located three doors down, and blocked by two of the other men, so he is now pretending to study the beers behind his own door, which is the final door before the craft beer comes up to a stark boundary with the domestics.

Time seems to slow for this young man and he is filled with dread and anxiety. To relieve himself of it, he flings the door open, grabs a six-pack at random, and walks quickly to the cashier, who checks him out and sends him on to his disappointing night of syrupy blueberry ale.

“Kind of makes you jealous of our dads, huh? What did they have to choose between, Coors or Miller?” the brashest of the remaining lot jokes. A few of them laugh, but some are unwilling to be pulled into any sort of camaraderie. Just because they share this particular issue doesn’t mean they have to become best buds.

“Ah, fuck it,” he says and moves his way through the line of bodies with easy charisma. He goes to the domestics and grabs a six-pack of Miller High Life, “For the old man,” he announces then scoots over to the cashier. His decision breaks the spell and three more are able to find their match, so that the line shifts from horizontal along the beer fridge to vertically stacked at the cash register, intermixed with those others who had gone ice fishing in the trough.

Only one remains before the fridge now. He is like an aggregate of all the others: thoroughly tattooed with shorts cut stylishly above the knee, he is wearing a concert tee, his hat is a plain color five-panel, unique without being ornate. His beard does not steal attention from its wearer as he stands unmoving before the chilled fluorescents, wrought forever incapable of making a decision. He will never leave The Yellow Store. His presence is no longer noticed by the attendants, the regulars, or even any of the cameras, but he acts as a comfort to the first-time or anxious customers who might otherwise grow self-conscious over how long it is taking them to make a choice. He remains upon the same two tiles even after the lights go out and the door locks at midnight, and he is still there when the opener puts on a pot at dawn, for he is, and always will be, The Young Man Frozen Before the Craft Beer Fridge.

[Exit Music]