Storm Season at The Bear's Den

The first day of my summer job at The Bear's Den—the sketchiest gas station off Route 66—my manager Gary told me to "bear with him" while he figured out the schedule. I should've known then that this whole thing was going to be a disaster.

I was sixteen, desperate for cash to fix my phone screen, and somehow convinced my mom that working at a place called "The Bear's Den" was character-building experience. Spoiler alert: the only thing building was my tolerance for BS.

Gary was full of bull. Like, actually full of it. He spent three hours explaining why the slushie machine was "an ancient artifact that demanded respect" while I watched customers pump their own gas because he'd lost the key to the pumps. Again.

"You gotta earn your stripes, kid," he'd say, leaning against the counter with his vape pen like he was some workplace guru. Meanwhile, I'd already handled three separate shoplifting attempts and one very confused tourist looking for directions to a town that didn't exist anymore.

The real test came during the Thursday night shift—thunderstorm season in the valley. The power was flickering like crazy, and I was alone because Gary's "emergency" was actually his cousin's birthday party. Of course.

That's when it happened. Outside, lightning struck the old oak tree across the parking lot—CRACK, BOOM, the whole nine yards. The power died. Complete darkness. And then I heard it: snuffling, heavy breathing, something moving in the storage room.

My brain went immediately to WORST CASE SCENARIO because I'd been binge-watching survival shows. Was it a bear? An ACTUAL bear? The place was called The Bear's Den, after all. Was this my origin story? The Girl Who Survived the Gas Station Bear Attack?

I grabbed the flashlight from under the counter (thanks, Mom, for the emergency kit) and crept toward the storage room door, heart pounding so hard I could practically hear it over the storm outside. The snuffling got louder. Something scraped against the metal shelves.

I threw the door open and yelled, "GO AWAY, BEAR!" which was literally the dumbest thing I've ever done in my life.

It was Mrs. Johnson from down the road. She'd gotten locked in when she came in for batteries earlier and the storm messed with the automatic lock. She was just trying to find her way out.

"Oh, hello dear," she said, clutching her bag of chips. "I think your lock system is bull."

We sat on the counter eating stolen chips and watched the lightning fork across the sky until Gary finally showed up two hours later, complaining about the traffic.

"You survived," he said, like this was some triumph of workplace training.

I handed him my resignation letter. I'd rather fix my phone screen with duct tape than deal with this bear's den of bull again.