Smokers. What's the deal, really? Someone please explain the significance to lighting paper and leaves, inhaling their combination after being put through a flame, then exhaling the remnants into the world. It doesn't taste good to us, so quit offering it.

        These smokers, they don't really "smoke" on a cigarette. They actually have to suck on it to pull the smoke into their lungs. So they're more like suckers instead of smokers. Suckers for the money they pour into a cash-machine that offers no real physical side-effects other that the perpetual satisfaction of providing the cure for the addiction they created.

        Pot, maybe I can understand that. It can turn even the most productive person into a lazy sack of shit, but at least they're feeling good while doing nothing. A smoker can be the most productive person in the world, but they're just working harder to make the money needed to supply them with the products needed to work harder at whatever it is they're doing. I don't know, just not my bag of kicks.

        I'm on this rant because of a customer. Today. Another smoker taking a break from steady heart rates and clean lungs to come get his fix. I'm the local drug-dealer. A man, possibly in his fifties, although more likely his thirties with smoking induced aging of the skin, slapped a five-dollar bill on the counter. They always slap it down on the counter. If we ever, just once, slap their change down on the counter, the complaining would be endless.

        "I need a pack of Marlboros," the customer says. Interesting how he says "need" instead of something more accurate, such as "want." Not that he cares. He's quickly diverted from the person who is about to become partners in this transaction. Some other person walks in, a old friend, I'm guessing, and the two strike up a conversation.

        I reach for the standard response to his request: a box of Marlboro kings, also known simply as "Marlboros." I place them on the counter and pick up his money to ring them up.

        As I'm making his change, he finally turns around to acknowledge me again. Looking down at his cigarettes, he shakes his head, smiles, and slides them back to me. "Lights, man. What, are you trying to kill me?" He laughs as he says this. Interesting that he accuses me of trying to kill him, seeing as how he was the one who came in to begin this exchange.

        I reach up and grab a pack of Marlboro Lights. I can't even get them halfway across the counter before he throws up in hands in mock protest. "100's, man. More smoke for the buck." He adds a slight amount of irritation in his voice this time.

        Biting my lip, I place those cigarettes down next to the original ones, then reach up for his 100's. These are slightly longer than standard cigarettes, yet cost the same. Whatever, maybe this will be enough for him to finally succumb to lung cancer and die. I won't have to put up with him anymore.

        I place the 100's on the counter. As soon as this guy sees his pack of cigarettes, I see him grinding his jaw in what can only be perceived as frustration. "Look man, menthol. Those regular cigarettes are just poison to my lungs."

        Behind him, I hear his friend chime in. "You just can't get good service these days."

        I eye both of them for a moment, knowing full well that if I say something, it will come out just as intended: a complete smart-ass, confident in my stance and condescending toward anything that differs. Which, of course, will only be the last reason needed for my manager to fire me. I don't need this job because I'm leaving soon anyway, but I don't really want the stain on my resume. This is the second summer here for me and if I can't use it as a reference, then I wasted two summers. Why take jobs like this other than for the money and as a resume builder?

        I grab the man his cigarettes: Marlboro Menthol Light 100's. As I bring them down on the counter and slide his change to him, he asks, "Do you have it in soft pack?"

        If there is a mechanism inside of the temper structure that clicks when it is being overloaded, then I have a fucking snare marching band playing "Cry Me A Fucking River" inside of my body. Before me lay four packs of cigarettes, each as he directly addressed at one point or another during our exchange. And each pack was dealt the same fate of being one of the unwanted.

        I can see the potentially next scene played perfectly in my head. I can throw the last pack at him. And then I can start in with what started as a customer wish list that soon turned into a service rack of packaging examples. "How many cigarettes have we gone through," I would say, "in order for a final verdict in your choice of cancer stick? How hard is it to learn even just a sample of communication skills needed to complete a transaction as simple as a cigarette purchase?" And then I could say, "You're at the end of the list for the cigarette offshoots. This is the dead end. Want these or not?" And then as he reaches for them, I could pull them back, making him reach again. This can continue on until it becomes boring, which should only be two more pulls.

        "Larry!" My manager walks in, just as that scene plays through my head. I hand the man his cigarettes and change, then move on to a customer who waited patiently through the cigarette ordeal.

        My manager walks up and shakes the man's hand. I'm assuming his name is Larry. "How are the wife and kids?" My manager's smile could make a baby cry. And who would want to do that? Maybe him, if he thought he could make money from it. And that, essentially, sums up my manager (pun intended).

        Larry returns the smile. "Oh, good, good. And you and yours?"

        "Couldn't ask for anything better." Moving briskly, he pats Larry on the back and says, "Well, good seeing you. Hope to see you again soon." And with that, he scuttles past him toward a side isle.

        "Oh, I'd count on it," says Larry. He then turns to walk out of the door. Our eyes lock for a brief moment, before he opens the door and disappears outside.

        This isn't over.

        Convenience stores just bring out the worst in people. No one can help it, it's just a by-product of the environment. Any place that will have a gas war with neighboring convenience stores proves this. If managers compete by raising or lowering the price per gallon by mere pennies, and this actually draws in people who will drive further to save that twenty cents on their fill-up, then what type of mentality is this? I'm not certain, but I know it's one that I want to stay far away from, or at least as far as I can while still continuing to work a register.

        I don't think all people who come into this or any convenience store are dumb. I'm sure Larry is a fairly intelligent guy when he's not inside of a convenience store (other than his obsession with cigarettes). But there's just something that happens when people walk through that door. It's like all rational sense of logic escapes them. And I don't think all convenience store workers are dumb, either. Sure, the old guy with the tattoos and washed out complexion that rings up your donuts might not be too bright. But take me for example. I'll have a college degree at some point in my semi-near future. That's proof of intelligence, at least to some extent. So what is it about the interior of a convenience store that creates this environment?