Four girls hurry to the Chill Zone. They whisper excitedly. One says, “We should get lots of straws so we can all help,” and gives no further clarification; the others nod their heads in agreement. When neon green slushie reaches the top of the last girl’s cup, they all approach the checkout counter to pony up for their beverages. Their leader, a tall girl wearing brightly colored face-paint and underwear outside of her outerwear, asks the cashier to sign her stomach. Jennifer, the cashier, abstains.
This is Cumberland Farms. It’s not actually a farm, but a convenience store on Thoreau Street in Concord Center and the de facto hangout for Concord’s youth. A small outlet, Cumberland Farms deals mostly in cigarettes and soda. A bright neon sign announces its presence, and proclaims the day’s gas prices – 4 gas pumps occupy the cramped parking lot, and some specialized truck-filling-pumps are next to the building to one side. Like at the agorae of ancient Greece, all kinds of people congregate at Cumberland’s. Peculiarly, the Farm attracts people from all of Concord’s walks of life – young, old, rich, poor; even high school students, known for their cliquishness, share Concord’s only convenience store as common ground.
Another group of students stands in the sidewalk directly outside of the front door. A seventeen-year-old girl wearing a red sweatshirt leads their conversation. “I got so retarded last night,” she says. She has attended a party, but alas, she can’t recall more than a few minutiae.
One more pair of girls rushes in. They buy slushies. As with the previous group, they seek stomach-signatures, and devote their conversation to a debate over whether people they know qualify as signatories. Eventually, the braver of the duo approaches the cashier and asks for a stomach signing. With a puzzled expression, Jennifer refuses. The girls leave the store dejected. Once the signature-hunters are safely out of earshot, the forgetful girl in the red sweatshirt asks her friends if any of them know why stomach-signing has become fashionable. A skinny-jeans wearing boy in her coterie responds that their high school’s cross country team is holding a scavenger hunt, and for one of their tasks, they have to have their stomachs signed by several people. He then delivers a ruling: “A scavenger hunt is the gayest thing ever.” The brief conversation ends.
During this exchange, a massive truck pulls into the side parking lot. The driver, Anthony, connects his gas tank to a pump set in the pavement via a long rubber tube. While his truck fills with gasoline, he buys a pack of cigarettes from the store, and briefly chats with the cashier. He then leans on the outside of the building, watching his truck.
A truck blocks the Farm’s driveway, so getting to the gas pumps poses a challenge. First, a middle aged man and his wife enter the parking lot in a red Toyota Corolla. They have difficulty maneuvering into the gas lane. Anthony helpfully signals them into the space. When they pull their car onto the curb, ignoring Anthony’s signal, he swears quietly and rolls his eyes. The jeans-wearing boy looks up from his own conversation to comment, “I’m gonna have to beat up that old guy.” Then clarifies, “I’m joking. I don’t beat up old people.”
A 5th grade teacher filling his gas tank points out that Cumby’s’ patrons are “a degenerate bunch.” A few minutes later, a young man who aspires to direct a recording studio comments, head shaking, that “some sketchy shit goes down at Cumby’s.” His knowing expression exposes his choice not to mention some particular details from his own experience.
Cumberland Farms lies at one of Concord’s most trafficked intersections. On opposite corners of the same intersection stand a Starbucks and a Dunkin’ Donuts. Though these establishments perhaps entertain more business, neither has the appeal of Cumby’s. No one gets to know the Dunkin’ Donuts or Starbucks employees, and high school students don’t while away the hours lazing in their parking lots. No; only Cumberland Farms truly captivates Concordian hearts.
Jennifer, who transferred from a different Cumberland Farms location only a month ago, notes that the store welcomes a diverse clientele. “Everyone comes to Cumby’s.” The busiest time is “Friday nights, between 9 and 11, because the kids don’t have school on Saturdays, and there’s a late curfew – there’s a private school over there.” She points vaguely northeastward out the window, indicating Concord Academy.
Cumberland Farms is on the same street as Concord’s public high school, and within walking distance of Concord Academy, a private school. Because of its proximity to the two schools’ hungry students, and because it’s Concord’s only convenience store, Cumberland Farms receives ample business. Though a lot of students come in at once on Fridays, the many adults who frequent Cumberland Farms during other times of day make up a greater portion of the Farms’ Business. Among students, the hottest seller is “the chill zone, they love those frozen things,” but adults mostly come for “cigarettes and lottery, sometimes odds and ends.” As if to illustrate her point, a 48-year-old man who was born in Dorchester but now lives and works in Concord redeems a winning scratch ticket and uses his $8 windfall to buy another. This time he wins nothing. Jennifer remarks that “a lot of big winners come out of Concord. Maybe because Concord buys a lot of tickets.” Instead of elaborating, Jennifer gazes out into the opposite corner of her small store, musing on an incident from the afternoon.
In the Dunkin’ Donuts across the street, a former pupil at Concord Carlisle High School, now a graduate student at Northeastern, reminisces about the time she has spent at the defiantly non-rural farm, “I guess it’s not actually the most interesting place. We went to Cumby’s because it was just where people always were, right? Concord’s a dull town, so at Cumby’s, there was always someone to chillax with. We needed that, you know?” Even when she was in school, Cumberland Farms thronged with students.
In the evenings, Cumby’s is no longer the bustling hub that it is during the day. Especially after Concord Academy’s curfew, it becomes a quiet place, only rarely do more than one customer occupy the store at one time. This gives the Cumberland Farms’ cashiers an abundance of time to think to ruminate. Patrons sporadically hurry into the small store to buy things they’ve forgotten. At night, they tend to smile bashfully, as if apologizing to Jennifer for interrupting her thoughts. During a long stretch without customers, Jennifer says that Concord’s Cumberland Farms is “an amazing place, though they don’t pay enough. … the best is the train – it shakes the whole building… not shakes, but you can feel it. It’s amazing.”