It virtually poured from the Citgo Quik Mart at Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and North boulevards in Tampa, so thirsty were nearby residents for the official party fuel of Hurricane Frances.
On Sunday, Quik Mart was the only place on the block to get it. Didn't matter how late. Like the sign said on the storm-soaked outside wall: "Open 24 hours for you!"
"We'll sell a lot of beer today," said manager Cary Patel. "A lot of beer, a lot of snacks, chips, candy, ice cream, soda ... "
And whatever else people needed. Locals flocked to Quik Mart to buy the essentials - or the desirables, at least - needed to survive the hurricane.
This is, after all, a place that sells 15 flavors of canned cat food and instant grits. Simply standing near the cash register, one can reach out and grab rhinestone-studded pantyhose or packaged pickles.
Patel barely thought twice about closing the Quik Mart. After boarding his family up safely in his home, he headed to the store his family has owned for several years.
"I just knew this would be open," said Roddy Alvarez, 49, who drove down the street for a last-minute gallon of milk. "Knowing these people, they'd stay open during a monsoon."
Jim Spencer, 60, stopped by on his way from Dade City to his daughter-in-law's home in Riverview to fill his pickup and generator with fuel.
"It's a godsend," he said.
As waves of rain wafted across the parking lot like ripples in a tide pool, residents packed their friendly neighborhood bazaar and walked away with jugs of water, bags of potato chips, cartons of cigarettes.
It would take a horde of vikings to plunder the Quik Mart clean, but many of the essentials were gone by midday.
"What happened with the bread?" asked Manuel Melendez, 43.
"Bread ran out," replied Govind Patel, Cary's father. "You came late."
A couple of minutes later, before Melendez could even check out, a nearby transformer exploded. The lights flickered, then went off for good.
It was too dark for customers to navigate the aisles, but the Quik Mart didn't close completely. The Patels locked the doors but opened a window near the register to serve who they could.
One by one, customers came by.
"Packa Newports," one said.
"I need batteries. The flat ones. I've got $50."
"Lemme get some Little Debbie snacks?"
"A big bag of regular pork rinds."
Jeffrey Jenkins stood in line soaking wet, waiting to ask for a cell phone charger.
"I would say that they're the heroes of our neighborhood," said Jenkins, 31, cupping his hand around a cigarette to keep Frances at bay. "They stay open through rain and shine."
