by Russell Hall
Friday night and it was time to close shop at my dead end job as a convenience store clerk. I admit that it wasn't much of a career, but then again, money is money. Carla, the girl I was working with that evening, was already going about the dull and laborious task of mopping the floors, and I was busily rolling quarters for the poker machines. I glanced at the row of them, the sentries of greed standing at attention and sated for the moment. We had turned them off an hour before closing and ushered the last few gamblers out the door. But I knew that they would be hungry again tomorrow. I would be sitting at the desk again, rolling quarters only to have the customers drop them into the hungry mouths of the machines again. It seemed redundant to wrap quarters only to see them handed out, torn open, and reused. I was caught in an endless cycle of hope and greed. The gamblers never seemed to notice that there were hardly ever any winners. Feeling like a sinister instrument of evil, I continued to wrap my quarters. Little George Washington was winking at me at the corner of his tiny silver eye. Yes, he knew what was going on, and he didn't care either.
I had only been working at the store for three months, but I was beginning to see the reason why we always had so much money in the safe every night. The store on the corner of Buena Vista and Atomic Avenue, nestled gently in the bosom of the low-income housing projects. Although the appearance of the store was less than inviting, there would always be a steady flow of gas customers in the mornings, enough to cover the cost of keeping the store open. All things considered, it made a wonderful concession stand for the gamblers and loiterers. We never saw the owners and we never asked to. We just packed the cash away in the gray safe at the end of the night and our manager, Barbara, would deposit it sometime the next day. On a good weekend we would pack away four to six thousand dollars. It seemed to be a lot of money to have lying around in a convenience store, but I needed the job and I wasn't about to start asking questions.
Carla snapped me out of my thoughts by spraying window cleaner on the back of my neck. She was always kidding around; that's the reason I enjoyed working with her. I suppose it helped the time pass a little faster.
"Don't forget to sprinkle some sand over the oil slicks out by the pumps before we leave," she said as she busily wiped the windows clean with a white paper towel. The heavy scents of bleach and ammonia were already devouring the familiar scents of cigarette smoke and gasoline. "Barbara will really be on our ass if the books don't balance today, and I don't want her to have anything else to bitch about."
"Consider it done. We just have to clear the register and we can get out of here. It's only 11:45 and we'll still have time to grab a beer at the Highlander if you want," I said as I swiped up the small bag of sand and headed out the door. Headlights flashed on and back off in the parking lot of the liquor store across the street. Someone probably had car trouble or something. I dismissed the notion with a shrug and began sowing the dusty sand across the glistening oil spots on the pavement.
The glare from the electric street lights cast an eerie green glow across the parking lot as I heaped handfuls of sand onto the pavement. Suddenly the lights cut out as Carla started to flip the switches in the fuse box. One by one they winked out until I was left out in the sticky darkness by myself clutching the sand bag to my chest as if it were going to offer some sort of comfort against the silence. I felt like I was in the middle of a low budget horror film, and I decided to get my job done in a hurry. I don't know why, but I was suddenly spooked by the silence and the eerie feeling that I was being watched. I finished quickly and walked back in the store, locked the door, and we started to cash out.
"We better cash our paychecks before we close the register," Carla said as she replaced the ribbon of paper in the machine with great difficulty. "It's time to spend some of that hard earned cash on some good beer."
"Good idea. Go ahead and cash mine too while you're at it." I handed my check over to her and looked down at the safe under the counter. The thing looked downright intimidating, almost as if I expected it to jump to life and start tearing at my leg in greedy consumption.
The safe was an old gray Lockheed that was hidden under the counter next to the register. It usually took me three tries to finally get the damn thing open. The combination was very delicate, and if you went over the mark by a fraction of an inch it wouldn't open. I hated the thing. It seemed that if I ever had something to do after work, the safe would resist my efforts out of pure maliciousness. It looked sentient in an evil way, but I had caught it off guard this time. With a metallic snapping sound, the lever swung down and the door pulled free with a sucking noise as if it were vacuum sealed. The musty smell of cash and stale air filled my nostrils. Swinging the heavy steel door open, I began to recount the money as we stuffed the bills in between the walls of rolled quarters. The final count was near six thousand dollars and some spare change. After a few moments of scribbling, Carla popped up from the books. "All done," she said as she slammed the book shut and tossed it on top of the counter. "You get the alarm while I get the lights." And with that she jumped the counter and disappeared into the back room.
"I don't know why they keep telling us to turn this thing on when we leave. It doesn't even work. It's been broken for about two months," I shouted to Carla. Her voice came back over the shelf of ravioli and cat food.
"Did you tell Barbara about it? I'm sure she would have it fixed if she knew about it," she said as she came back into the room.
"I've told her a hundred times, and she still hasn't had the thing fixed. She keeps saying that the repair men never show up. They probably just don't want to spend any money ensuring our safety," I said as I entered the code into the panel and turned the key on the box locking it shut. "Guess it doesn't matter. Let's just get the hell out of here," I said as Carla gave a nod of agreement. The lights were off and we were out the door.
"See you at the bar," I said while climbing into my car. Carla waved and smiled. Just as I was about to shut my door a large man appeared out of the darkness dressed in ripped blue jeans, a filthy flannel shirt, and to top it all, a bloody towel wrapped about his right arm.
"Hey man, I live in that house over there and my wife is having a baby and I need a quarter to call the hospital for an ambulance." He seemed to be nervous as he talked. Looking back over his shoulder across the street, he clutched the bloody towel to his stomach.
"Can you help me out?"
"Sure man, I think I have a quarter," I replied as I rummaged through my pockets. Sure enough, I pulled out a shiny George Washington just as the sound of Carla's big blue Delta 88 drowned out my voice. I dropped the coin into his sweaty palm.
"Thanks man. I appreciate it."
"No problem, man. Good luck," I said as I turned away and went to slam the door shut. Suddenly I felt the door hit something. As I turned back around to see what the door had struck, I noticed his big hand holding onto my window. At first I was wondering what he wanted. Then I looked down to the bloody towel that was now pulled back and displaying a rather large looking barrel. Oh god, the blood. A thirty eight special and bullets in the chamber. I had never noticed how big the barrel of a gun looked from this side. I remember thinking, maybe anything looks bigger when it's shoved in your face. As he grabbed me by the shirt and yanked me out of the car, my head struck the door frame, and a flash of white heat spread across my forehead in a throbbing sensation. His hand was clutched tightly to the back of my neck, and I could feel the gun on my temple. Bad touch, I thought as the barrel of the gun moved from my head to the center of my back.
"Carla! Get out of here. He's got a gun!" I shouted to her. Her head whirled around as if it were in slow motion, and the look on her face said that she had heard me. She nodded to me. At first I didn't know why, then I heard the sound of gears grinding in her transmission. The engine howled just as the tires began to squall.
Smoke pouring out from under the back of her car, Carla's blue god of death peeled across the parking lot headed toward the intersection. My heart sank as I realized that I wasn't getting away with her and would be stuck here with this psycho. But then I saw the brake lights of Carla's car as the blue bombshell squealed to a stop. The engine revved again and I whispered, "Oh my god," as my heart jumped from my feet to my throat. Tires smoking, the car shot across the parking lot in reverse in our direction, the engine screaming and those red lights gliding closer and closer. Instinctively I jumped out of the way; somewhere in mid air I heard the guy swear just before the loud sound of grinding metal roared in my ears. The pavement looked hard as it was flying toward my face. I was right. After a feeble attempt at trying to stop my fall, the world rolled over three times and my head struck the ice machine. Little lights danced across my eyes to the music of chaos.
As I looked up I saw the rear end of Carla's Delta 88 ripping itself free from the side of my Grand Prix. She had tried to run him down. Good girl, I thought as I struggled to my feet. My head was throbbing furiously. But where was he? Then I saw him stand up. He had jumped in a different direction. He was clutching his leg, and the look on his face said that he was in severe pain. I think I laughed at that point. However, a closer look revealed that he still had the gun in his hand, and my hopes turned to ashes as I saw him stand and take three shots at Carla's rapidly disappearing tail lights. I froze as the gun whirled in my direction.
"Get them fucking keys out and get that Goddamn door open or I'm going to blow your damn head off, you punk!" he said as he grabbed me by the hair and pushed my face against the glass door of the store. My hand fumbling in my pocket, I thought, Carla is going to get mad if I smear up the windows again. The gun pushed harder into my ribcage. I grabbed the small silver key ring in my right hand and began the search for the proper key. That's the first time I noticed that my hands were shaking so badly. He was getting impatient, and as I shoved the key in the lock, he rammed the gun into my side even harder. My side exploding in pain, I turned the key and the door swung open. I spit on the broken alarm just as he grabbed me by my brand new Z. Cavaricci shirt and threw me across the counter. More lights danced across my eyes as the safe appeared to jump out in front of me, a mountain of gray metal just waiting to tip over and squash me. That's when I heard him come around the corner.
He grabbed hold of the phone cord and with a swipe of his arm, snapped it out of the wall and threw it across the room. The bell rang crazily as the phone bounced down the aisle past the motor oil, only to crash against the far wall. The store was dimly lit by the lights outside, just enough to see. I felt as if I were looking through a window. This couldn't be happening to me, I thought. It's just a dream. Then the memory of Barbara telling me about convenience store robberies flew into my head. "You know what they say; if you get to see their faces, they'll usually kill you to eliminate any witnesses." Thanks, Barbara. The shadows danced across his face as he came closer, and he slammed a button on the register. The cash drawer flew open. He didn't look happy when he saw that it was empty. My face felt like it was on fire as the back of his hand struck me across the mouth. I hit the floor hard, the taste of blood filled my mouth, and I felt like I was going to pass out.
"You've got thirty seconds to get that safe open or I'll kill you." He sounded so calm. The gun had found its way to the back of my head again. My hands were shaking uncontrollably. Oh my god, the safe!
"Look man, I can't get that thing open when I'm working, how do you expect..."
"Shut up, punk!" The gun pushed harder into the back of my head.
"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Buddha, and all the rest of you up there. Get ready God, here I come!" I mumbled my last jumbled prayer to myself as I frantically tried to get the combination to work. My hands looked like a washing machine on spin cycle. First try... Please ... I tried the lever. Clink! "Damn!"
"Twenty!" His voice boomed louder than before. God, please help me out here. Just then an old baseball bat slid out from under the safe covered with dust and cobwebs. Where had that come from? "Don't even try it, boy!" He said as the barrel of the pistol pushed harder into the back of my head again. I couldn't catch my breath. Where's my mother? Maybe if I told him I left the oven on he would let me go. My hands were spinning across the combination dial again. Right twenty two, left thirteen, right eighteen. God please let this work.... Clink!
"Fifteen," he called out. I wanted to tell him that he wasn't helping any. I'm never going to see my cat again, I thought. I'll never get to see the sun rise again. My Grandmother was telling me about how she and my Grandfather had met after World War II. Oh God, my Mom is going to get that phone call that she's always been afraid of. Please.... God in heaven, whoever you are, don't let this happen. It's too soon, not like this. "Clink." No! No! No!
What happened next is impossible to explain. It felt as if every memory I had ever had was drifting into my thoughts all at once; liquid memories poured into my mind and flowed through my head like water. My entire life literally flashed before my eyes. I was seeing all of my memories in my mind's eye, and in an instant it was all gone. So this is what they mean when they say that, I thought to myself as I looked down at the baseball bat lying on the floor.
"Nine!" I was getting really tired of him calling those numbers out like that. I'll be dead in eight seconds. The bat was staring at me. Just then I noticed the blue lights flashing across the wall shelves full of Aqua Net spray cans. I remember thinking to myself, "Well, it's now or never."
Grabbing the bat with my right hand, I swung it around in back of me. Just before it struck his arm I noticed that he was watching the police car outside in the parking lot. The bat slammed into his arm but I didn't hear the loud snapping noise I had hoped for. As I got to my feet to run past him, I noticed that it hadn't even knocked the gun out of his hand. My vision shot past him, and I ran for the exit from behind the counter. Only a few yards to go--. Then I heard the loud "BOOM!" and there was a flash of white light. I flew off the ground and into the air. "Fore!" I thought to myself. The floor was coming at my face again and my vision melted into oblivion. Silence.
Static...That's funny. Why would there be static in the afterlife? I couldn't feel my body. There was a white light that appeared to be coming closer and closer to me. God I'm dead! I thought to myself; then all my dreams of heaven and a harp were shattered when my vision cleared and I saw Barney Fife standing over me with his flash-light shining into my eyes.
"Have you been shot son?" he asked in an astonishingly indifferent tone of voice. I looked down only to find my brand new shirt ripped and covered with blood. In fact, I was lying in a pool of the stuff, liquid memories that had flown out of the back of my head. The heavy rusty iron scent of blood filled my nostrils. It had polluted my once beautiful white shirt with a speckled crimson spray; the blood was everywhere. My driver's license picture was staring back at me with the same dumb expression I probably had on my face at that moment.
"I don't know? Have I been shot? I can't seem to tell," I said sarcastically as I struggled to stand up. That was when the world started spinning. The empty wallet fell on the floor between my legs. The bastard had made off with my pay check money. The cop came closer and tilted my head back.
"No, it looks like a head wound. You're really lucky your friend called us. You could be dead right now. He pistol whipped you a couple of times," he said while grabbing a roll of brown paper towels off the counter to hold to the back of my head. "Hold these till the ambulance gets here. Head wounds will bleed like crazy," he continued to say as he walked from behind the counter.
"Where's the guy with the gun?" I inquired as I struggled to stand up, but the room was spinning again.
"You stay where you are for now. Probably got yourself a concussion. As for the robber, he ran out the front door. I told him to freeze or I'd shoot. He threw down the gun and ran behind the building." He fiddled with some buttons on his radio.
"So you just let him get away? Why didn't you shoot him?" I asked, more than a bit perplexed.
"He was unarmed. Can't shoot an unarmed person, but we've got the gun he threw down for evidence." He sniffed.
"I would have lied! Couldn't you have shot him in the knee caps or something?" I asked, but he was ignoring me. Just before he walked out the door I grabbed a pack of cigarettes off the rack. "See these? I'm stealing these!" I announced to the police and the rest of the world as I ripped into the pack with my teeth. It was probably the last thing I needed right then, but I didn't care.
The ambulance came and they were going to take me to the hospital. I had lost too much blood and was having a hard time remembering my name or the President of the United States, and all the rest of those ridiculous questions they ask you when you're in shock. I was sitting on the sidewalk in front of the store and a brown haired police officer was trying to tell me that I was going to be all right. The EMT had just finished having me sign some piece of paper when I noticed the small quarter lying at my feet.
Red light reflected off its shiny silver surface from the lights of the tow truck as they hauled off my mangled Grand Prix. That was when I thought of calling home. Picking the coin up, I stumbled to my feet and walked over to the pay phone across the street and looked at the quarter in my hand. It had been bled on, scratched on, and skidded on, which is exactly the way I felt. "All in a days work," I mused while flipping the small coin over in my palm.
We're all caught up in cycles of greed; death can come at any moment. Why spend your life worrying about when it's going to happen? With a sigh I let the quarter slip from my fingers and into the coin slot on the pay phone. Little George Washington winked at me one last time before disappearing from view.