Floyd Kelly

Tonight, I aced the big presentation at work and was on cloud nine, needing only a victory lap to the 7-Eleven for a Slim Jim and Fritos.

The entrance hummed with a fluorescent buzz, busy moths whisking through the thick humid air. I all but danced to the counter, snatched the longest Slim Jim from its dusty box and slapped my big meat onto the counter. “Tonight, we celebrate.” The cashier, Brenda, leaned in, her large nostrils twitching.

“Jason, your meat smells funky,” she murmured. “Fritos, toasted corn, a hint of Wind Song perfume, you’re a walking disaster!”

I laughed. “That, Brenda, is the smell of pure awesomeness.”

“Is it, though?” Her eyes scanned me up and down. “The corn and the beef? Total nostril clash.”

A guy in a paint-splattered jumpsuit shuffled in line with a Mountain Dew. Brenda’s head cocked. “Whoa. Gary. You’re a walking science fair project. I’m smelling latex paint, Skoal, and… wait for it… ‘Pine’ air freshener. The three of those mixed? That’s the exact smell of a new shower curtain.”

DING! An elderly woman in a wheelchair rolled in. Brenda sniffed the air and yelled, “You! Old woman! You had sex earlier didn’t you! I smell it!” The woman turned her chair and revved out.

“That’s it!” a voice rumbled from the back. A man in polyester, a cheap tie, a name tag with “Mr. Henderson”, his face like a pug dog stormed out. “Brenda! The rule about sniffing the customers?”

“I’m not sniffing, boss,” she said calmly. “I’m providing an inventory. It’s an added value!”

“You’re freaking people out!” he yelled, pointing a finger at Gary, who was now sniffing his own armpit. “This is a convenience store, not a damn perfume counter!”

I slapped a ten on the counter. “Keep it,” I said, snatching my Fritos.

“Not so fast, Corn Chip,” Brenda said. “You need a new scent. Your profile is a mess; the corn and your smelly meat are at war. You need a bridge. Go get a drink.”

Mr. Henderson’s face went purple. “Brenda, you’re FIRED!”

She ignored him, her eyes locked on me. “Go on,” her voice intense. “Finish your scent profile.”

With the manager screaming and Gary sniffing his armpit, I was trapped. I bolted for the cooler, grabbed a can of Sprite, and slammed it on the counter. Brenda picked it up, holding it to her nose like a rare something. “Ooh… citrus, the perfect bridge between corn and meat.” Her eyes went to the manager. “And… just a hint of ‘I QUIT.’” She peeled off her name tag, dropped it on the counter, and strolled out, leaving us in a cloud of confusion and the lingering ghost of cherry Slurpees.