I groaned. "Please tell me Beverly went home, slept it off, and realized the world doesn't owe her gasoline."
Tessa slid her phone across the counter. "Brace yourself."
On the screen was a Facebook livestream labeled On location at the scene of the crime. The crime was apparently me.
Across the street, right at the entrance to Ridge View Meadows, stood Beverly and four HOA diehards holding signs, waving them at passing cars. One woman had a megaphone and was dramatically chanting something that sounded like, "No more gas shame." Another clutched a Bible to her chest as if protecting herself from demonic fuel attendants.
"They've been at it since sunrise," Tessa said deadpan. "One tried to throw a bag of dog poop at the door. She missed and hit her own windshield."
For a second, I laughed hard because honestly, this was too ridiculous, but the humor evaporated quickly. There were already dozens of shares, comments, and angry face reactions under the livestream. Most people were laughing at Beverly, but a handful were egging her on. I suddenly felt the weight of it all pressing down on my shoulders. This wasn't just a quirky HOA fight anymore. This was public. This was loud. And this was getting bigger.
20 minutes into the shift, the first concerned resident wandered in. She wore yoga pants, a Ridge View Meadows visor, and an expression like she'd smelled something rotten. She pretended to browse the windshield wiper section while filming me from behind a shelf of motor oil.
"Hi there," I said.
She flinched like I'd hissed at her. "Oh, I'm just checking the, uh, viscosity." She waved a random bottle. "Is the fascist working today?"
I stared at her. "I have absolutely no idea what that means."
She slipped out the door faster than a spooked deer.
A man in a tie-dye shirt came next. He strolled up to the counter with a bag of chips and leaned in conspiratorially. "Hey, man," he whispered. "How do you feel about free enterprise?" He wiggled his eyebrows like he expected me to confess to running a black market gas cartel.
"I feel," I said, "that you have to pay for your chips."
He nodded dramatically, as if I'd said something deeply philosophical, then wandered off without buying anything.
By 10:00 a.m., the store felt less like a business and more like an aquarium with tourists tapping the glass. Every customer recorded something. Some wanted a fight, some wanted proof I wasn't the monster Beverly claimed, and some just wanted to be part of the drama. I tried to stay calm, but my patience was thinning fast.
That was when two men in cheap suits walked through the door. They marched up to the counter with chests puffed out, badges swinging on lanyards that looked like they'd been printed on a home computer.
"We're with the Community Consumer Protection Agency," the taller one said.