The 7/11 at the End of Time

Hi! I work at 7/11. My badge, shiny there on the surface of a red-light red frock, says my name followed by "Associate." We're there on the exit right before the edge of the observable universe; if you see the endlessly collapsing Walmart, you've gone too far.

I have a few responsibilities. I find I quite enjoy them. Every day, I unpack our deliveries, neatly sealed in shiny plastic. Rip 'em open on a bad day and boy, you're in for a gusto treat. I have a big clipboard; I mark off the merch and decide what to restock on the shelves. Sometimes it's overwhelming-- we have over one-thousand varieties of product, each their own individual little worlds. Look-- each chip is its own shape, no matter the flavor, salted, vinegar, french onion dip. Walk the peaks and valleys of candy bars, scale the icy cliffs of flavored ice. Rest your beak at whirl pools sweetened with syrup.

Yeah, I'll say it: I love this job. I know that's not a popular sentiment, but it's true. I love seeing our customers walk in, their beaten-down frowns uplifted by fibrous jerky 'n warm coffee made fresh every day. They each have their own individual tales, their own stories of what brought them here. And I guess that's why I love this job, it brought me you.

Who, me? I'm no-one.

You're not no-one. You're someone. You're half of this story, my story. You came into my store, remember?

I remember. Let's just say I was in a bit of trouble, and I needed a friend. It's quite funny that our webs should get tangled like this. But anyway, I really am no-one. Everything about me is not mine. These legs, the arms and lips; they belong to someone else. Watch; the skin colors don't even match. I'm a projection, backwards, forwards; doesn't really matter. You are what you make of yourself. Ever since that very first explosion which birthed it, I've been a loyal costumer. Do you have any other loyal costumers?

Every costumer is a loyal costumer.

Can I tell you an interesting story? You've never gone beyond these walls; you know nothing except cigarette packages and little soda cans. But beyond here, there's a casino right 'tween where the thousands and millions of tendrils of the galaxy collapse into black nothingness. You walk down the steps, and its façade seems to stretch endlessly through time; blink and you see the flat black glass, towers made of crystal but blink again and it turns to cathedral; blink again and it turns to pyramid; blink again and it turns to a tower of putrid mud. You open its doors, and the rows of slot machines seem to extend endlessly into the black horizon, every single one of them ringing, buzzing, glowing and rattling with pools of coins that shift uneasily under your feet. I take a coin and I push it into the little dark slot. I pull the handle, but the sounds of rattling coins and flowing little notes are so overwhelming that I don't even realize I've lost. Isn't that funny?

I'm not sure I understand.

You are blind, and you are weary. I'll show you how little a utopia could be.