Frances scoured the calendar aimlessly. He flipped through assorted pictures of smiling puppies for a seemingly endless amount of time until he found the date; June 17th, 1994. June was marked with a picture of a small golden retriever in the most beautiful, cultivating flower field he had ever seen. It mocked him. He rubbed his heavy eyes, barely able to read the small print that decorated the date’s corresponding box. His dark eyebags reached and grasped at his eyelids, heaving them down with the force of an anchor. He squinted at the scribbled pen lines that hardly even resemble letters. They read ‘Shipment’. He popped the top off of a faulty highlighter and begrudgingly marked underneath with a viridescent checkmark. 

The fluorescent white lights of the front assaulted Frances’ eyes as he retreated to the back room. A low, droning hum slowly infiltrated his ears as his shoes delicately pressed against the moist, cold tile below. His footsteps echoed across the room like faint whispers. And, although it was a refreshment compared to the headache-inducing front, it still caused him to let out a hefty sigh. The walls were discolored, having been unpainted for what could only be assumed to be decades. They had a certain uncomfortable look and feel of moisture to them. Lining these walls were several metal shelves that held dozens of cardboard boxes. A dull, diluted green light filled the room. If you looked close enough, you could see faint, thick clouds of condensation illuminate underneath the glow. Somehow, it both felt humid, and strikingly cold at the same time.

After several trips, Frances finally had all of the boxes he needed to be moved back up front. He did not want to stock tonight, but he persisted. He moved shelf by shelf, stocking each new product that had arrived that morning. Before he could finish and make his way back to the front counter, the tarnished golden bell that hung above the entrance rang a short melody. The swift opening of the front door caused a breeze of night air to invade the space, and Frances shuddered in his uniform.

“Welcome in!” Frances called to the new customer. In place of a response, he only heard the buzzing of the flashing, electric “Pine Fuelco” sign outside. He began to feel slightly uncomfortable. As he was finishing up his stocking duties, he saw the customer out of the corner of his eye. He called out again.

“If you need anything, don’t be afraid to ask,” He stopped, still staring from his peripheral vision. The customer’s hand lightly cradled the edge of the shelf, and their dark silhouette was completely devoid of features, except for one bright white eyeball piercing straight into Frances’ soul. He quickly turned, dropping stock on the floor. At the sound of the objects hitting the ground, the customer was gone. Frances shakily rose from his position on the ground and carefully stepped over what he had dropped. Each step was heavy and attentive, and he ran his hand across the shelves next to him, using them as a railing. His eyes, wide and alert, darted back and forth. Sweat slowly dripped from his forehead as he slowly made his way to the front counter. His dark curly hair became slightly damp and greasy. He whipped it to the side and continued forward.

Now at the front counter, Frances positioned himself in the back left corner of the small space, leaning against the wall with all of his weight. He rapidly skimmed the aisles in front of him; scanning down each row, to the freezers, and back up again. He saw nothing. His breathing was heavy and still. As the dramatics played out, he spotted a figure. His breathing stopped. A timid customer casually sauntered through the aisles to the counter, inspecting a bag of chips. Frances felt relieved but still quite panicked, quickly wiping the sweat from his brow and clumsily adjusted his shirt back into his pants. He was still holding his breath as he approached the register and feigned a smile. The customer calmly placed the small bag of chips on the counter and placed her hands into her pockets. Frances was still suspicious, but knew that she wasn’t the person he saw. He did notice that she kept glaring at him. His uniform was soaked. He had no idea. As he became embarrassed, he let out the breath he had been holding since the customer made it to the counter. She winced slightly. He went through with the transaction though, pushed her chips across the counter back to her, and waved her off. As she left and the front doors swung open, another gust of blistering night air swept through the store. Frances looked at the clock excitedly, only to realize it had only been an hour and a half since his shift started. He shuddered again.