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I work in this gas station
that is too ghetto
to keep its doors open through the night.
I take care of my customers
through a triple pane bullet proof window
with a sliding steel money changer.
I'm just a nobody
waiting on a bunch of nobodies.
The decline of America
is deeply riddled in the eyes
of all of us.

This fat chic
comes running up to the window
with both of her hands over her privates.
She was sweating, drunk,
had smeared make up
and a dazed look about her.
“Can I use your bathroom?” she asked.
“Sorry.” I said. “I cannot let anyone inside the store.”
“Shit!” she exclaimed, doing her pee-pee dance.
She looked like a large sea animal
in a tank of boiling water.
“Tell you what,” I said.
“There are no cameras pointed across from pump 11.”
“Really?”
“You can pop a squat there.”
“Hell yeah” she says. “That's what's up.”
“Yeah.”
She waddled off
and I reached over
and hit record on the surveillance system.
I leaned against the counter,
crossed my arms
and began to watch this dense fat chic urinate on camera.

A figure rushed passed her.
A much older lady,
forty or so,
approached the window.
She was wearing a green hoodie
beneath a transparent poncho.
Coupled with her mangy hair
and moley face,
she looked like some kind of dejected school lunch lady.
After searching through every compartment
of a very large discount store handbag,
she finally ordered a pack of smokes and a slim jim.
Handed me a credit card.
Declined.
“I'm sorry. It won't take this.
Do you have another card you would like me to try?”
She freaked.

Abruptly after the last syllable rolled off my tongue,
she violently pushed the changer at me and exclaimed:
“BITCH NIGGER COCKSUCKER!”
“Wha...what?”
“FUCK YOU!”
I slowly slipped the card back into the changer
to give it back.
She shoved it at me again.
“NIGGER BITCH PUNK FUCKER!”

I took a step back and watched her amusingly.
She started beating the balls of her fist
on the window, whipping her hair around.
Her eyes were globes of sincere hatred.
The credit card in the changer was now badly damaged
by her tantrum.
I started to dig it out before she would destroy it.
She threw the changer at me again,
smashing my hand in the process.
“OW! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?”
I asked with one injured hand tightly gripped in the other.
I raised my leg and kicked the changer back at her,
knocking her in the gut with it.

She backed away
and started rummaging through the station's main trash receptacle,
throwing its contents over her shoulder
like a prom bitch at the closet in search of a missing shoe.
Presumably, she had a nicotine jones
and was looking for a smokeable butt.
A group of young men then pulled up in a sweet ride.
(Sweet ride. Such lingo is born from my mouth
as naturally as an atomic bomb. These bums are actually
influencing my communication ducts.)
“What can I get for you guys?” I asked them.
The men looked cautioned by something.
Suddenly...
she popped up from
not the left or right...
but from the bottom of my blindspot at the window.
“You never gave me my cigarettes!” she informed me.
“That is because your card was declined.”
“BITCH NIGGER! COCK SUCKER!”

BANG! THRASH!

The two-way speaker
with which I communicate with my clientele,
has this neat volume function.
Turned all the way up,
God himself could hear me.
And it emits wicked feedback to boot.
An ear soaring sound it is,
like some random kid picking up a megaphone.
I usually reserve it for people
that cannot stand to repeat themselves
and feel the need to do so with a loud growl.
“HAVE A NICE NIGHT!” I would squeal and thunder after them.

I turned the volume all the way up.
“HEY! YOU DISEASED HAG! LEAVE BEFORE I CALL THE POLICE!”
“BITCHNIGGERCOCKSUCKER!”
“I'm not even black, you retarded cow!”
I shouted back with the loud speaker.
She stormed off finally,
noticing on her way that three black men stood behind her.
Trash was everywhere.
My new customers looked confused.

That morning
my manager told me to come to his office.
He had watched the video(which had audio) of the events
leading up to trash everywhere in his parking lot.

“Mind explaining your behavior to me?”
“Sorry sir.” I said. “But I cannot be expected to play counselor,
let alone take some of these people seriously.
Not for minimum wage.”

The manager squinted,
rubbing the bridge of his nose
with his thumb and index finger.

“Get the hell out of my office.” he said finally,
handing me an empty trash bag.
Still employed,
I gladly got down on my hands and knees
and cleaned up the mess.