Amidst the explosive grunge scene in 1993 Seattle, Riley Brooks finds herself broken after an abusive relationship with her first love comes to an end. Struggling to put the pieces back together, she has a chance encounter with the friendly, but eni...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
November 1989
The Stockton, California Quik-ee Mart was quite the sight to behold. The wallpaper was peeling and discolored with water damage. Two of the pumps were perpetually out of order, and the men's bathroom needed a good plunge at least once a week. The broken chime on the door carried an almost ominous sound upon opening, and the interior smelled like greasy hotdogs and scalded nacho cheese.
I loved it.
I mean, it served its purpose. You get your gas. You get a hotdog. You just may or not have a run in with a homeless crackhead. No biggie.
My parents bugged me after I graduated homeschool to do something with myself besides "music". Begrudgingly, I put in some applications and took the first job offered to me.
Thus, I was now jockeying the cash register at the Quik-ee Mart.
It goes without being said that it wasn't exactly a lucrative job, but I spent every day doing the things I loved and that was enough for me. Reading, listening to music, and solitude were what I craved most at this point. It seemed my life's goal was to disconnect from it entirely.
And in this dull setting, it was easy to drift away. The days were droning, the tasks tedious and took little to no brain power to complete. The traffic was sparse and the few people that came in were typically regulars.
Again, it wasn't the most stimulating of places, but looking back, I remember it fondly. That is, until I met him there....
It started out as just another mundane day out of my five-day work week. At 8:55 am, I'd lethargically pull my black-and-white Dodge 400 coupe into my designated parking space—not that it had my name on it. The permanent stains from my oil and antifreeze leaks seemed to have claimed the spot as my own.
Then I'd fish my keys from my pocket, unlock the roller shutters, raise them, go inside, turn on the flickering overhead LED lights, slide my punch card into the time clock at 9:00 on the dot, set up the daily paper on its display, brew some burnt tasting coffee, flip the sign on the door to open, count my register, and then take my respective seat on the shredded stool behind it.
On this particular day, I couldn't wait to pop open my brand spanking new paperback copy of Anne Rice's Queen of the Damned. I couldn't wait to feel those crisp pages slip against my fingertips. The speakers were out again, so I brought in my radio, propped it up next to the register and tuned it to KROQ-FM.
My life turned on its head when this Tommy Lee wannabe burst through the door with his obnoxious, guffawing "Crüe" in tow. He came in at least once a week, his presence accompanied by the sound of his heavy boots clunking against the worn-out linoleum, pricking my little bubble of tranquility every time. And like clockwork, he'd buy a hot dog, a slurpee, and harass me with lewd comments while I rang him up. He seemed younger than me, and maybe a bit insecure, so I reckoned he was just trying to impress his friends.
