Munch On This

At the busy intersection of Stadium and Lovell, the locally iconic convenience store, Munchie Mart, epitomizes every stoner’s drug-induced dream: the promise of Reese’s, SlimJim, Doritos’s and more concealed inside a creamy white exterior topped with green lettering.

And that’s not to forget the thriving alkie community. To the left of Munchie’s center, targeting passersby on foot and four-wheeled alike, are understated advertisements for deals on beer.

Stepping inside the Plexiglas door, the one donned in stickers reminding patrons of the legal age, a whole new array of sensory stimulants are revealed. Where metal siding has not invaded—undoubtedly the work of modern “improvements”—wood paneling coats the walls and extends to the ceilings where aged, saloon-style fans hang unmoving. Security cameras peek from the corners and an odd support post.

There is one refrigerated closet dedicated entirely to brews. There are 21 coolers: nine for beer, the rest for juices, energy drinks, and finally, milk. Though not their priority, it’s bound to be breakfast eventually.

Tonight, heavy metal blares through massive speakers, scaring the spiders away from their carefully crafted webs. Paul explains that their music choice is quite deliberate; studies have shown that playing the genre, one largely regarded as abrasive, is proven to reduce the time customers spend in the store. This tactic comes in especially handy toward the end of the night.

Munchie’s walls are scarred with placards for Pete’s, Wicked Brews, Coors, Becks, Corona, Budweiser, Labatt’s Blue, Michelob, and finally, the Detroit Tigers and Red Wings. Some hang upside down, most are mirrored, and all appear to have been there for years. Flags for both local colleges hang above the door, and the southern wall is divided equally between support of the Broncos and Hornets.

Twice, the store’s motto, “BIG enough to serve you, SMALL enough to care,” finds its way into the mix, appearing on indistinct poster board, looking to be the product of an unmotivated elementary school child.

Rulers of the playground, the boys of Munchie Mart like to give their patrons a hard time. In fact, they’re told to do just that when they’re hired in.

At Munchie, there isn’t much turnover behind the counter, and that being said, the two newest assets, Paul and Will, get to work prime time. Being stuck with a Friday night shift is comparable to working a Friday night shift for law enforcement, or in the emergency room, or at a fast food chain—without the perks and at least some of the gore, that is.

In between restocking the shelves, checking IDs, and handing over two of America’s few legal drugs—alcohol and tobacco, the guys like to laugh, control the radio (CCR and The Flaming Lips dominate when the metal simply becomes too much), prank call the other Munchie, and to see the clock strike 1:45am—the time they finally get to lock the door, cash out the registers, and ignore lingering sass from old drunks banging on the window, and ill-balanced college students looking for more, more. It’s closing time and it’s a long time coming.

Between six and midnight, Munchie Mart is hopping. After that, it quiets down until 1:30, when a mad rush of people leaving bars and frats stop in to stock up. The statewide last call is at 2. Paul and Will are bombarded, without fail, by hangers-on looking to make the most—or drink the most, anyway—out of their night.

On the average Friday, Munchie pulls in an average of $6,000 in cash alone, most of which is made from liquor, beer, and cigarette sales. Considering the majority of bottles are pulled from waist-level and down, that’s a lot of selling.
Munchie’s top-shelf houses Absolut 100, Grey Goose; their bottom, Seagram’s and Popov.

“You can tell right away who’s gonna buy what,” Will says.

“Poor people buy cheap stuff,” adds Paul.

Shortly before midnight, a middle-aged man comes in, walks to the counter with two forties, and slurs something about a deal he heard on the radio.

He plays the gender card, tries to get me in on it—“You heard it, didn’t ya?,” he asks with a drunken smile. But Paul’s heard it all before. No one, especially not this guy, is going to pull the wool over Paul’s eyes. Paul just waits, unamused. The man laughs. He’s been caught. He pays full price for his malt liquor and he leaves.

Refusing to be racist, Paul says he can only classify Munchie’s patrons into bums, regulars, kids from K College (exchange students, or foreigners, comprise their own group), Western sorority girls, frat boys, and wanna-be gangsters.

Paul and Steve are paid to deal with drunks. They deal with teenagers and twenty-somethings without ID. They deal with giggly stoners who can’t decide between Fritos and Lays.

When the rush subsides and the store settles down, Paul slides out of nowhere into the center-stage between registers, yells, “Hey Will,” and splays open his arms like a young kid ready for his close-up. I ask if that’s a code. They seem to say a lot without words.

“No,” he replies, “I’m just trying to make Will smile. He looks so sad.” At that stage we’re all smiling, Will refuting his melancholy. Both guys work two jobs and are paying their way through school. Seven hours into a shift, it’s about getting through the day.

Rumor has it there’s a baseball bat behind the counter, but rumor has it wrong. There used to be, according to Will, but the temptation was too strong: “We’d want to use it too much.”

Munchie Mart owner, Tom Berry, has put other incentives in place by taking an active stance against underage drinking. He rewards his employees with $10 for every fake ID confiscated.

The confiscated IDs make their way into Munchie’s own box of shame, but often not without tears and protest from former owners. Steve told a story of someone breaking into the store and crawling behind the counter to look for his ID the night after it had been seized. Not only did his search fail, the kid was captured on surveillance cameras and ended up paying his weight in damages.

Berry is willing to pay for the foolishness of others, Will explains, saying the owner, who also owns Portage Wine Cellar and another Munchie franchise, “doesn’t approve of underage selling, and it motivates us to catch them.”

“People are stupid,” Paul says matter-of-factly, encountering yet another impaired customer. It seems patrons often put entire cases of beer in the space between the two counters.

“This is not a counter. It’s a glass display case,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “It’s fragile.”

The case protects treasures like Black & Milds and Munchie Mart tee shirts available in one size: XL (they read “Munch On This”). To the case’s right, displayed prominently with the cigarettes, is a pair of “Love Cuffs,” marketed for “Intimate Lovers Only.” But for some reason, they don’t sell so well.

Raunchy or not, a popular question asked at Munchie, second only to “Where’s the bathroom?” is “How do you get The Voo from here?” The Voo, for those of you not in the know, is a local strip club.

Each of the brown bags Paul and Will pack with alcohol is something of a Pandora’s box, the glint in patrons’ eyes turning its key as the exchange is made: cash for freedom and inhibition.

It’s strong and it’s cheap, and Munchie’s selling.