Circle K Shell Station

The waiting room for purgatory. I’m pretty sure this place is a forgotten circle of Hades, left out only because Dante didn’t have to stop for gas on his journey. The owners of this franchise clearly set out with one bold vision — to make a trip to the convenient store more harrowing than a root canal by the Marquis de Sade — and boy did they succeed. I have the misfortune of this being the only store on my commute to work, so unless I drive 3 miles out of my way, I have to confront this hellhole every day. Let me walk you through my daily routine of getting coffee and cigarettes. Pulling into the parking lot only foreshadows the slow torture awaiting you as you dodge a cluster of Parkinsons-​addled Florida drivers careening around with reckless abandon — I strongly suggest calling your insurance company to lower your collision deductible and boning up at the local bumper cars before even attempting it. At the pumps, prepare for touch-​screens so insensitive I have taken to carrying around a mallet in my car to more easily pound in my billing zip code; and, lest the owners give the impression they in any way value your time, or that any of their clientele can afford to pump more than $ 5 worth of gas at a time, there is no switch to allow you to keep pumping while you check your oil or run inside. You must stand there and caress the handle longer than it takes a hooker to give a handjob. In their defense, delaying your trip inside does postpone the inevitable assault by one of a consistent rotation of panhandlers who this store leaves undisturbed to hang out by the door — one of whom I’m pretty sure has legitimate mental health issues and an unleashed dog with no rabies tag. Once inside, you’ll find a store of generally inoffensive hygeine — except in the bathrooms, which I’m pretty sure are portapotties that have been duct-​taped to the existing structure. It’s not uncommon to find yourself in a line five or seven people deep with only one cashier working the register — despite the presence of other employees and a manager who appear to be doing nothing that couldn’t wait until they had down time. In this line, you’ll always find yourself behind a muumuu and fuzzy slipper wearing obese woman purchasing lottery tickets with demands more stringent than someone with a gluten allergy at a bakery, and a bonafide menagerie of white trash so plentiful you will swear you’ve unwittingly found the carnie convention. What should be a quick and painless stop eats away minutes of your commute as each transaction drags on under their mechanical inquisition: «Is that all today?» «Would you like to add a (whatever the impluse item of the week at the register is)?» «Would you like a bag?» «Credit or debit?» «Cash back?» and finally, sweet merciful Jesus, finally «Swipe your card at the blue light.» At times I have been tempted to just sit on the counter and tell them about my relationship with my mother, since their endless questions imply they care more about me than my therapist. I have witnessed not one, but several occasions, where patrons have set their items down in the floor with a thunderous «F – k it!» and stormed out the door. .. ok, on two occasions, I WAS that patron. In short, unless you like me, have no other convenient options, please, I beg you drive a few minutes somewhere else — lest you join me and the dreary-​eyed customers as this place slowly devours your soul.