We didn’t know Millie’s name because she always paid in cash. “Millie” was just an easier mouthful than “Marlboro Lights Lady.” I had sympathy for her. She was always harried coming in, three-quarters put together, more often than not with her daughter in tow. Her 80s model Cressida was in bad shape and had reportedly broken down in the parking lot at least once, much to Ron’s displeasure, at least according to Esme’s account.
I suspected that she lived in the neighborhood, and that her kid or kids went to Serra Elementary, of which I was—and am—a proud alum. If the 24-Mart’s neck of San Tomas hadn’t changed in the twelve months since I’d lived up the street, Millie was probably a single mom working a couple of jobs and trying to hold things together. Her apparent anxiety, and its manifestations, were likely just as much a product of all that as anything dispositional about her.
Millie would usually roll in between 2 and 3 PM and immediately get in line. If her kid was with her, she might send her running down the candy aisle to pick out a treat, but Millie was strictly business, and that business was nicotine. Like most smokers, she was a strict brand loyalist—hence the moniker—but she took particularism to a unique apex by asking the clerk to pull down the cigarette rack so she could pick her exact pack. I went with it. She wasn’t doing this during the morning rush, and she was always nice, even though always rushed before and after taking time to make the right selection of Marlboro Lights, hard pack.
As much as I had sympathy, I was also nineteen years old and working a shift with a genuine prick. As usual, Nelson was bored.
“You only like Pink Floyd more than Led Zeppelin because you smoke too much weed.”
“Fuck you,” I said, putting my mop down. “It’s because they actually have more than one song.”
The 24-Mart was empty, obviously. Nelson was standing at his register, eating a hot dog that he had written off as being on the grill for more than the legally-allowed time (two hours, but we routinely let them go far longer). I drew the short straw and was mopping the floor under the soda and Slushee machines. It was one of the rare days where Ron scheduled both of us together for the bulk of our shifts, presumably because we were the only two employees under 21, but probably because he didn’t trust the idea of two friends working together. With good reason.
“What are you talking about?” said Nelson, mid-chew. “Have you even listened to Led Zeppelin? Also you play punk rock.”
“Dude, I have their entire catalog through—”
I was interrupted by a guttural noise. Thinking Nelson was choking, I ran over to the registers, where he grabbed me by the back of my smock and pointed out the window. Millie’s beat-up, gray sedan was turning into the lot. Nelson released me, shoved the rest of his hot dog into his mouth, and pulled down the cigarette rack. He began frantically pulling Marlboro Lights hard packs off the shelf, many of them landing on the rubber floor.
“Come on!” he shouted, mouth full of hot dog. “Help me out here!”
“What the fuck are you doing?” I replied, bemused.
“Leaving one pack.”
Immediately everything became clear. Nelson was conducting a social experiment. Millie was an unwitting, non-consenting subject. My curiosity got the best of me, and I had to see Nelson, the Loki of our times, in his element. I picked the packs up off the floor and stashed them in a cabinet under the counter. Nelson followed suit with all but one still on the rack. I looked out the window to see Millie, alone, slamming the door to her Cressida—a darker gray than the rest of the car, I noticed—and hurrying toward the store.
“Hey, don’t be a pussy and don’t fuck this up,” Nelson whispered behind me, whisking away from the registers.
“What the hell are you doing?” I yelled.
“You’re the performer, right?” he laughed, picking up my mop and gleefully taking over my onerous task.
In retrospect, Nelson’s wasn’t a very good sales pitch for why I should do what I was about to do. But at nineteen, working an eight-hour shift at the 24-Mart, a boredom-based dare is pretty hard to turn down—especially with the “don’t be a pussy” clause invoked.
The door chimed. Showtime.
“Can you pull down the rack for me?” Millie asked, approaching the counter.
“Uh, sure,” I said, simply pulling it down. Millie’s face fell, drastically and immediately. I was crushed.
“Oh no…” she started. “Um, do you have any more Marlboro Lights besides that one pack?”
“We have a lot in the soft pack,” I said, motioning to another column in the Philip Morris section.
“But none in the hard pack?” she asked, eyes darting across the grid of cigarettes.
“I dunno, they’re one of our, uh, more popular brands,” I began, thinking on the fly—never my strongest suit. I looked at Millie again, only seeing panic.
“Let me take a look,” I said, giving myself time to sort out the ethical dilemma I had found myself in.
Before I could do so, I heard Nelson chime in. “We’re expecting a delivery later today.”
“How soon?” Millie asked, looking past me to the soda fountain.
“Definitely by four,” I replied, seeing Nelson’s face drop. I could only wonder how long he was going to let her dangle.
Millie once again began scanning the rack. “How fresh are the soft packs?” she asked.
“I don’t sell them very often,” I said, “but I do have a few regulars who buy them consistently.” At least that much wasn’t a lie.
This, apparently, did not assuage her concern. “What about Ultra Lights, maybe?” she asked quietly.
“I have a bunch of those, right here,” I pointed. She looked at them, slowly running her finger up and down the back of the packs.
“I don’t know,” she said quietly. She looked down, and then back up at the Ultra Lights, and finally to the sole visible hard pack, tempting her like Eve’s apple—right there, delicious, and out-of-bounds for unknown and unfair reasons.
She looked up. “You said there will be more by four?”
“I promise, we’ve been waiting on these guys all day,” I said, knowing there was no choice but to continue, trying not to crack.
“OK, I guess I’ll see you back here then,” she said sadly, before rushing back out the door and triggering that familiar chime.
“Dude, you’re a fucking dick,” I said, as Nelson came over, cackling.
“What are you talking about? That was awesome!” he laughed. “And fuck your sanctimony. I thought you were going to be a little bitch at the end there but you went through with it. I can’t wait to see her come back!”
I realized that I had been just as much an unwitting, unwilling subject as Millie had. He was just as interested in how I would behave as he was in her reaction. If all the world’s a lab, then Nelson was a teenage Milgram, and I’d been a mostly-compliant subject, willing to do something terrible to someone else so that he could make a point.
All I could do was laugh along, somewhat wryly. Nelson was a dick, but at least he owned it. The boredom of the afternoon had given way to a moment of self-reflection: the very characteristics that made Nelson repugnant to so many were also those that, in many ways, were his finest. Maybe we all needed to drop the façade and own our dickbaggery a bit more.
The door chimed. A skinny white dude who looked like he was 50 but was probably closer to 30 scurried through the threshold, tweaked out of his mind. I watched closely as he grabbed an energy drink and meandered toward the register.
“Pack of Camels too,” he mumbled. I rang him up, dispensed his change, and sent him back out into the world. The door chimed. Commerce in America.
At 4:03, Millie came back. Through Nelson’s haphazard experimental procedures, the previously hidden cigarettes had become randomly rearranged in the rack, such that there could be no rhyme or reason to where the freshest would be. Millie thanked me for the heads-up on the delivery, deliberated, and carefully selected the fourth pack from the bottom. Her daughter got a Milky Way. All was right in the world again.
I suspected that she lived in the neighborhood, and that her kid or kids went to Serra Elementary, of which I was—and am—a proud alum. If the 24-Mart’s neck of San Tomas hadn’t changed in the twelve months since I’d lived up the street, Millie was probably a single mom working a couple of jobs and trying to hold things together. Her apparent anxiety, and its manifestations, were likely just as much a product of all that as anything dispositional about her.
Millie would usually roll in between 2 and 3 PM and immediately get in line. If her kid was with her, she might send her running down the candy aisle to pick out a treat, but Millie was strictly business, and that business was nicotine. Like most smokers, she was a strict brand loyalist—hence the moniker—but she took particularism to a unique apex by asking the clerk to pull down the cigarette rack so she could pick her exact pack. I went with it. She wasn’t doing this during the morning rush, and she was always nice, even though always rushed before and after taking time to make the right selection of Marlboro Lights, hard pack.
As much as I had sympathy, I was also nineteen years old and working a shift with a genuine prick. As usual, Nelson was bored.
“You only like Pink Floyd more than Led Zeppelin because you smoke too much weed.”
“Fuck you,” I said, putting my mop down. “It’s because they actually have more than one song.”
The 24-Mart was empty, obviously. Nelson was standing at his register, eating a hot dog that he had written off as being on the grill for more than the legally-allowed time (two hours, but we routinely let them go far longer). I drew the short straw and was mopping the floor under the soda and Slushee machines. It was one of the rare days where Ron scheduled both of us together for the bulk of our shifts, presumably because we were the only two employees under 21, but probably because he didn’t trust the idea of two friends working together. With good reason.
“What are you talking about?” said Nelson, mid-chew. “Have you even listened to Led Zeppelin? Also you play punk rock.”
“Dude, I have their entire catalog through—”
I was interrupted by a guttural noise. Thinking Nelson was choking, I ran over to the registers, where he grabbed me by the back of my smock and pointed out the window. Millie’s beat-up, gray sedan was turning into the lot. Nelson released me, shoved the rest of his hot dog into his mouth, and pulled down the cigarette rack. He began frantically pulling Marlboro Lights hard packs off the shelf, many of them landing on the rubber floor.
“Come on!” he shouted, mouth full of hot dog. “Help me out here!”
“What the fuck are you doing?” I replied, bemused.
“Leaving one pack.”
Immediately everything became clear. Nelson was conducting a social experiment. Millie was an unwitting, non-consenting subject. My curiosity got the best of me, and I had to see Nelson, the Loki of our times, in his element. I picked the packs up off the floor and stashed them in a cabinet under the counter. Nelson followed suit with all but one still on the rack. I looked out the window to see Millie, alone, slamming the door to her Cressida—a darker gray than the rest of the car, I noticed—and hurrying toward the store.
“Hey, don’t be a pussy and don’t fuck this up,” Nelson whispered behind me, whisking away from the registers.
“What the hell are you doing?” I yelled.
“You’re the performer, right?” he laughed, picking up my mop and gleefully taking over my onerous task.
In retrospect, Nelson’s wasn’t a very good sales pitch for why I should do what I was about to do. But at nineteen, working an eight-hour shift at the 24-Mart, a boredom-based dare is pretty hard to turn down—especially with the “don’t be a pussy” clause invoked.
The door chimed. Showtime.
“Can you pull down the rack for me?” Millie asked, approaching the counter.
“Uh, sure,” I said, simply pulling it down. Millie’s face fell, drastically and immediately. I was crushed.
“Oh no…” she started. “Um, do you have any more Marlboro Lights besides that one pack?”
“We have a lot in the soft pack,” I said, motioning to another column in the Philip Morris section.
“But none in the hard pack?” she asked, eyes darting across the grid of cigarettes.
“I dunno, they’re one of our, uh, more popular brands,” I began, thinking on the fly—never my strongest suit. I looked at Millie again, only seeing panic.
“Let me take a look,” I said, giving myself time to sort out the ethical dilemma I had found myself in.
Before I could do so, I heard Nelson chime in. “We’re expecting a delivery later today.”
“How soon?” Millie asked, looking past me to the soda fountain.
“Definitely by four,” I replied, seeing Nelson’s face drop. I could only wonder how long he was going to let her dangle.
Millie once again began scanning the rack. “How fresh are the soft packs?” she asked.
“I don’t sell them very often,” I said, “but I do have a few regulars who buy them consistently.” At least that much wasn’t a lie.
This, apparently, did not assuage her concern. “What about Ultra Lights, maybe?” she asked quietly.
“I have a bunch of those, right here,” I pointed. She looked at them, slowly running her finger up and down the back of the packs.
“I don’t know,” she said quietly. She looked down, and then back up at the Ultra Lights, and finally to the sole visible hard pack, tempting her like Eve’s apple—right there, delicious, and out-of-bounds for unknown and unfair reasons.
She looked up. “You said there will be more by four?”
“I promise, we’ve been waiting on these guys all day,” I said, knowing there was no choice but to continue, trying not to crack.
“OK, I guess I’ll see you back here then,” she said sadly, before rushing back out the door and triggering that familiar chime.
“Dude, you’re a fucking dick,” I said, as Nelson came over, cackling.
“What are you talking about? That was awesome!” he laughed. “And fuck your sanctimony. I thought you were going to be a little bitch at the end there but you went through with it. I can’t wait to see her come back!”
I realized that I had been just as much an unwitting, unwilling subject as Millie had. He was just as interested in how I would behave as he was in her reaction. If all the world’s a lab, then Nelson was a teenage Milgram, and I’d been a mostly-compliant subject, willing to do something terrible to someone else so that he could make a point.
All I could do was laugh along, somewhat wryly. Nelson was a dick, but at least he owned it. The boredom of the afternoon had given way to a moment of self-reflection: the very characteristics that made Nelson repugnant to so many were also those that, in many ways, were his finest. Maybe we all needed to drop the façade and own our dickbaggery a bit more.
The door chimed. A skinny white dude who looked like he was 50 but was probably closer to 30 scurried through the threshold, tweaked out of his mind. I watched closely as he grabbed an energy drink and meandered toward the register.
“Pack of Camels too,” he mumbled. I rang him up, dispensed his change, and sent him back out into the world. The door chimed. Commerce in America.
At 4:03, Millie came back. Through Nelson’s haphazard experimental procedures, the previously hidden cigarettes had become randomly rearranged in the rack, such that there could be no rhyme or reason to where the freshest would be. Millie thanked me for the heads-up on the delivery, deliberated, and carefully selected the fourth pack from the bottom. Her daughter got a Milky Way. All was right in the world again.
