7-Eleven

This place messes me up. I can always count on it to get me to the next level. Boosted, as it were. 24oz. Can of Miller Fortune and a buffalo chicken wrap just to see where fortune leads me. Lead me to a boat ramp in a blizzard with four flat tires; all night till the tide came in and froze my van in place.
There is a guy that works there. He’s there most times I go in. No matter how hard I try to mentally prepare myself for him, he always confounds me. Looks like he’s trapped in some brutal aquatic dimension barely tangential to ours. You’ll see. And you’ll know who when you see him.
Always saying something «off» to me like «where ya been man? Been years since I last seen ya man!» And I was there like three days ago and he was my cashier. He ain’t joking either. Thinks it’s been years instead of days.
I always hold the door open for as many people as I can, to collect enough good will there to counter balance all the sickness this guys swings at me.
I keep going back too. I need a puzzle that can’t be solved. And all those other patrons rely on my door holding kindness to fortify them against their own private hells that this guy individually weaves for each one.
I always want to go later at night, before last call and get some beers to meet up with some stranger down the side street to discuss in hushed tones the precise nature of this guy’s deal; maybe come up with some strategies to better cope with the web of mental agony this dude weaves around each and every mind he encounters.