As far as American convenience store clerks go, he was a ways from waxing stereotypical. Sure, age-wise, he fit the mold; plenty of mid-20-somethings work the center-stage-stressful, often-encircled-by-foul-mood-patrons retail gig. But he had this calm, sage-for-his-age, super-courteous, urbane demeanor. It was readily apparent that he could be employed elsewhere. Why in the world is he working here? I wondered behind the 60-ish African American man who reeked of booze. No, this clerk was not my-hopeless-life-is-undergoing-its-third-train-wreck distressed like his coworkers. He actually seemed like a mole from the Phoenix (Arizona) headquarters. I mused while waiting. Maybe he’s secretly surveilling the employees. Then later he transmits reports from some swank studio apartment in 3rd Ward. [Charlotte, NC] Yeah, he’s most likely a corporate plant doing in-store quality assurance. I was now first in line at his register. The digital clock atop the cigarette display read 6:16. It was a hot-as-hell June (2017) Thursday evening and the store’s air conditioning wasn’t keeping up; it had fallen way behind hours ago and had resigned the contest. How far away is October? Please let this be my last scummer [sic] in this sweathole. [sic] Let me win and get the eff [sic] out of here!