My alarm drags me into consciousness with its persistent buzzing. Nine pm. I pull myself out of bed, put on some clean clothes, and get ready for my “day” in general. After brushing my teeth I walk into the kitchen and throw some bacon on an old teflon pan. The kitchen is small but cute, or was cute. The three counters are covered in dirty dishes and rotting takeout, and the cabinets, despite not having anything in them, are abysmally dirty.
The sizzling of the bacon brings my attention back to food. I take the bacon off of the pan and scramble some eggs in their place. I finish by wrapping them both in a tortilla with a little salsa. I look at the crooked clock on the wall and realize it’s almost ten. I hastily finish my meal then rush out the door, leaving the dirty dishes on the counter.
In place of my bike there is a flat tire and my bike lock. I scowl, yet I think it is a little ironic because I stole all the parts for that bike during high school. Thinking of high school I remember my buddies. By now all of them had moved away or we just don’t talk anymore. Back then I couldn’t wait to be out of that hell hole, but now I think back and miss it. The lack of responsibility and not having to worry about paying rent.
I fish my phone out of my pocket and check the time -9:50. I was going to be late to my ten-o’clock shift. Speed walking to work I call Trent, the person who has the shift before me.
“Hey Trent” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.
I can hear the irritation in his voice as he reluctantly asks “What?”
I tell him “Nothing, I’m just running a little late. I’ll still be there for my shift don’t worry”
He mutters something and I am able to make out the word “again” amongst his muttering before he says “Fine”. His voice sounds a little cold as he hangs up the phone.
I arrive at work ten minutes late. Exhausted from the walk, having disturbed traffic in my rush to get to work. I see trent sitting behind the 7 11 counter, wearing a clear expression of displeasure. That seems to be the only expression I remember him wearing too. Fitting perfectly on his thin face. Trent is tall -all though it’s hard to tell when he slouches in a chair- and skinny with pitch hair and decent looks. He wears a very simplistic monochromatic wardrobe. If I had to guess I would say he was about 26.
I stroll in meekly and say “Thanks.”
He promptly ignores my thanks as he clocks out; muttering something I could make out to be “What’s your excuse this time.” Always with the muttering. But soon he is gone and I start my shift.
I work most of the night shift, from ten pm to four am. It’s usually pretty slow going, an occasional customer here and there. Most of the time I just space out and read, sitting in the chair we keep behind the counter. However, today was Friday so the students from the nearby campus stayed up later than normal, meaning more late night customers for me.
Towards the end of my shift, almost three am, when the shop is completely empty, a motorcyclist pulls up and strolls into the shop.
When he enters I say “Good evening”, the usual greeting I give to the sparse amount of customers I get on my shift.
He replies back rather warmly, saying “evening! Is this were the budweisers are?” Referring to the drink section next to the counter entrance.
Glancing at the drink section to my left, I reply with “yeah over there on the left” then return to the copy of Martin Chalmers’ Beneath Black Stars I was reading.
About 20 seconds later I hear the sound of shuffling to my left and look up to see the motorcyclist standing behind the counter. This time I really look at him, observing his features in detail. He’s about 6 feet tall judging from my hight, brown hair, brown eyes, a little bit of stubble blue jeans, and yes, he also wore a leather jacket. He looked almost exactly like your stereotypical biker, except I noticed that he was wearing an AC/DC belt as well as holding me at gunpoint. Petrified, yet a little amused at the AC/DC belt, my mind races to the panic button beneath the register beside me.
The man barks an order at me, “give me all the money in the register! Oh, and don’t even think about pressing the panic button or I’ll shoot you in a heartbeat and grab the cash myself” waving the gun around in a “get going” motion. The motion looked a little clunky because of the silencer on the end of his gun. This is the part that really made me nervous, as I was almost certain he wasn’t bluffing because of the way he commanded me, and that silencer. He could kill me without a sound and I wouldn’t even be found for another hour when the next customer comes in. I can feel the sweat running down my back as I grab a plastic bag next to the register and anxiously start stuffing the contents of the register in to the bag.
I look out the window across from the register momentarily while loading the bags with the cash, which really was only like 200 dollars, and see someone across the street dialing a number. I said a secret pray in my head, hoping to god they were calling the police.
About twenty seconds later I finish stuffing the bag and start to hand it to the man when he says “Under the cash sorter too” still pointing the gun at me. Returning to the cash register I lift the black piece used for sorting the bills and grab the cash under there, about another 200 dollars.
He turns his back to me momentarily to grab a six pack of budweisers from the fridge adjacent the cash register and I press the panic button.
He quickly exits with the cash and a six pack of beer soon after, saying “Pleasure doing business with you” as he exits and hops on his motorcycle. I notice his license plate says “The spirit of America” beneath the numbers on the plate. How ironic I think. That was also the only thing I could make out on the license plate.
Now that he left I sit for what feels like an hour, waiting for the police, although it was more like 3 minutes. During that time I thought about what I could’ve done and worried about getting fired. The police arrive, question me about what he looked like, and any other important features. I blank on almost all their questions and when they ask me what he looked like all I am able to tell them is that he was tall with a little bit of stubble and he looked like a “stereotypical biker with a leather jack”.
The police finish questioning me and I am free to go. Having not brought my bike I begin the slow walk back, thinking bitter thoughts about what just happened or what I could’ve done. The walk is long though and by the time I am half way home I stop thinking about the robbery and start to cry.
I walk like this for a while till I come by a nearby park. I stop and sit on one of the park benches, still crying. I look up at the sky but the stars are blocked by clouds. I sit there for a long while, still crying when the clouds part. I haven’t looked at the stars in such a long time, and while they are dim from the city pollution I could still see them. Each one a bright gem in of itself. I cease crying to look at the stars some more. Never before have the stars been more comforting to me. The more I stare at the sky the less hopeless things seem to become, as I realize that for every star there is there is a new possibility out there waiting for me. It is the comfort in these silly thoughts that a part of my brain unattached to my emotions tells the other half of me is true to keep me going, lest I drag myself into insanity.
