We're All Up At Allsup's

Situated in near proximity to China Express, a cheap Chinese take-out chain restaurant, and Abilene's Pet Regency, the Allsup's on Judge Ely has local, rustic charm that can only grow in time. What is almost authentic art deco tiling on the floor and the smoldering sausage biscuits to the left of the giddy cashier bring the visitor back to the exciting era of hustle and bustle that defined the 1920's American attitude. Yet, there is also something noticeably effortless in the Allsup’s aesthetic. Those other chains—7-Eleven, Kum & Go, and Flying J—those are all annoying fronts. Those are the pretentious convenient stores. Ask any of the employees at these stores and they’ll tell you, straight up, that they long deeply for a chance to switch to Allsup’s. Kum & Go has serious problems with its name and deserves all the jokes with sexual innuendo that get thrown back at it by drunken teenagers. And Flying J? Its whole marketing scheme is way too obvious. No, no, no, it’s really all about Allsup’s, a family-owned chain that stretches back to the year 1956 in Roswell, New Mexico, and luckily for us, has extended its branches all the way out to the Texas frontier.
Here at the Allsup’s, local patrons spill into the store at all hours of the day, paying cash in advance for their gasoline, for their cigarettes, and for the 40 oz bottles of Miller High-life they will tape to their hands later in the evening for a classic game of "Edward Forty Hands." The air is full of spices that sizzle out from the humble heat-lamped food section, where you can chose from comforting, classic goods, such as warm pretzels, breakfast taquitos, and, of course, those smoldering sausage biscuits; however, hovering around and above such comforting smells, there is always the same smell of cleaning fluid. As with other Allsup's convenient store branches, this particularly bizarre fusion of smells is part of what makes the store chain so charming. Enveloped in the peculiar aura, the two cashiers, both men in their mid-twenties chatter on to the costumers. The time is 11:30 pm on a Friday night.
The cashier with greased back, mangy black hair sincerely engages with his costumers in conversations that range from Star Wars trivia to "what sort of gar would you recommend for me to buy (that I will later use for a blunt)?" chitchat and all the way to enthusiastic debate on which Republican presidential nominee has been the craziest thus far leading up to the primaries. The cashier with blonde hair looks extraordinarily washed out on this evening. For some reason or another, he can barely keep his eyes open. Mostly, he responds with lazy grimaces.
The cashier with black hair:
—How are you doing this evening, man?
A slender woman with silver hair, blotchy skin, and saggy elbow skin responds:
—Oh, I am doing just fine.
—Is this Four Loko (an canned alcoholic beverage named for its four main ingredients: alcohol, caffeine, taurine, and guarana) an all you’re getting tonight, ma’am?
—Do y’all have any Marlboro special blends (the word “blends” squished out of her nicotine-stained mouth with an incredibly endearing diphthong on the “e” vowel)?
Throughout this discourse, the blonde cashier stands idle. The other slaps the counter of his register and swings his head up toward the cigarette rack:
—You betcha!
—Then I’ll have two packs of the special blends with the Four Loko.
—Alright. Can I see your license?
The woman scoffs in her sixty-something smokey rasp:
—Do I not look eighteen to you? I got a granbaby.
Always able to be light and merry, the cashier responds:
—I know, it’s stupid, but I gotta see it. Everyone’s gotta show some proof of their age now.
The silver fox whips out her license from her wallet:
—It’s the goddamn government interfering with everything.
She probably gets a nod or grunt of agreement from someone in the line. The cashier can only laugh. He’s not very political and doesn’t plan on responding with anything that might extend the conversation. The lady takes her purchases and walks out the glass door with the clearly marked sign that reads “Do Not Open. Use Other Door” and walks out in swanky strides towards her silver Lexus.
The cashiers stand in a square of countertops in the middle of the store. Costumers surround them.  The hustle and bustle of time surrounds them. Alcohol, Fritos, energy drinks, and lottery tickets surround them. Within the square they can relax, all the while not detracting from the store spirit. There are two registers—one on the left and one on the right. Only the one on the right is in use right now by the cashier with black hair. Perhaps the blond cashier would or could be managing the other, but he doesn’t seem up for the challenge of initiating conversation and scanning barcodes at the moment. It is 11:30 pm, so his demeanor is excusable. Right behind the backside of the square, a yellow bucket lies in wait with clean water, ready to be soaked up into a janitor’s mop.
Then, next in line a young, chubby white boy tugs on the sleeve of his mother:
—Mama! Can I get a different bag of Corn Nuts?
The Mother groans and lifts her arm away from the child’s reach:
—Which flavor do you want?
—BBQ!
—Hurry, there are other people waiting.
The more involved cashier bounces in his shoes with laughter. It’s hard to say whether or not it’s forced. His partner, arms consistently crossed, manages to pull of something like a smirk.
A tall man with a brown mustache walks over to the yellow bucket with a mop and stands as if waiting for something to happen or, most likely, for an opportune moment to start mopping the tile. There is not too much communication between the costumers in line, but every now and then there will be a man who looks at what a woman is holding in her arms to check out and then says something like this:
—You having a big party tonight?
The woman in front of the man might turn around and smile. She might be wearing hoop earrings and she might be midriffing. She probably is going to be clutching a six-pack of Miller Light and another of Bud Light with Lime. She will flirt back appropriately, so as not to offend:
—Maybe (she will also be thinking that it’s quite obvious she will be partying).
—Real cool! Alright, that’s what I like to hear!
The woman will laugh and turn back around toward the register and hopefully will not be bothered anymore. In front of her a slightly intoxicated high school student slides down twenty dollars in cash across the countertop to be put on pump four. The blonde cashier finally takes some initiate and opens up the other register. The line is beginning to lengthen unnecessarily.  Larry begins mopping the floor.
Outside the doors to the Allsup's, the neighboring locals congregate from adjacent apartment complexes, sometimes all crowding around the pay phone for a chance to call up their friends for grand old times of cruising out on Abilene's south first street, perhaps to share some Marlboro's, or maybe just to laugh and enjoy the peculiar pleasantness that, really, only Allsup's can offer.
Everything about Allsup's seems ingeniously picked, assembled and designed to create its fast-paced atmosphere, remnant of a time when the locales had their whole lives ahead of them, oceans and oceans, in fact. A time where no economic recession or depression lay as an imposing threat. Larry the janitor mops the art deco tiles cheerily and waves back to costumers who greet him. Larry mops the tile floor so well that the cashiers are able to work with clear minds and the costumers are able to forget about all the dirt in life and continue on in their wild, spiraling motions.
An old couple drinks coffee outside of their Volvo while their son pumps their gas for them. A gruff trucker tucks his big gulp Coke under his coat and walks out of the two front glass doors. This Allsup's store never sleeps, but breathes on into the night.