Tonight's been an even worse night than usual, because I've already had two drive-offs. The Head Asshole has announced that drive-offs will be taken out of the cashier's paychecks from now on, and I'm not sure if this is even legal. I'm damned sure it isn't right, but apparently the last guy who worked overnights was letting his buddies fill their tanks, and then blaming the shortages on theft. So, as usual, I get to pick up the tab for some other jerk's stupidity.
I wouldn't have taken this job at all, except things have been a little rough on the home front. The parents decided I could be someone else's problem for a while, so I've been crashing on my buddy Scooter's couch for about a month or so, and I know my welcome's wearing thin. I'm hoping to have the cash to get my own place before he gives me the boot, but it's not looking good.
So, I guess you'd say that I could be in a better mood. I'm flipping through this month's copy of Penthouse, wondering if I could make a little money sending in a story to their "Forum" page, when the kid walks in.
He's the typical pre-teen suburban gangbanger wannabe, a type I especially hate, because they do what they do by choice. These aren't the kids who grew up in the projects, or on the streets; they're bored small-town white punks who've listened to one too many Snoop Doggy Dogg albums and decided it would be cool to be part of the "gangsta" lifestyle. What assholes. This one's got the typical too-big pants, the obligatory beeper and the baseball cap cocked to one side of his head. He nods at me with a casual, I'm-just-too-cool, "Wuzzup" as he slouches in between the racks. I keep an eye on him; I'm pretty sure he'll try to lift something.
Meanwhile, some fat housewife with a late-night chocolate jones rolls in for her fix; I ring her up, and try to ignore the fact that she's coming on to me. I mean, what the hell, everyone needs love, but I don't do charity work. This cow's pushing 250 for sure, and old enough to be my mom, and the housecoat and knee-highs don't do anything special for her either. I grunt a few times while she tells me about how she doesn't sleep so well when her husband's out of town, blah blah blah. Finally, I say, in my snottiest you're-boring-me-go-away tone, "Will that be all, ma'am?" I lean hard on the "Ma'am".
So finally the bitch gets the message, and hoists her fat ass back into her piece-of-shit Honda and takes off. Before I have a chance to heave a sigh of relief, though, there's the kid, looking nervous and sweaty and right in my face at the counter. He's got his hands in his coat pockets and his eyes are everywhere except on mine. I start to get a bad feeling.
"What do you need, man?" I'm checking out in the lot to see if he brought friends along. There's been a couple of hold-ups around town lately, one where the cashier ended up face down in the walk-in with a bullet in his head, so I'm a little squirrelly.
The lot's empty, and I'm just starting to think I'm ok, because I really can't see this little stroke pulling an armed robbery by himself, when he says, "Give me the money."
He's trying hard to sound like a tough guy, but I'm a lot more convinced by the .45 he's got pointing at my stomach. It looks plenty big enough to do the job on me. And his hand's shaking like crazy, so now I'm really scared, because it's bad enough that it's looking like I might die in a Fill & Serve, but I at least don't want it to be by accident.
"Hey, man, take it easy," I say. This is obviously the wrong thing, though, because he starts to get even more excited.
"You take it easy, motherfucker!" He yells. "Get the goddamn money!"
Great, so now I've pissed him off. "OK, OK, you're the man with the gun," I say. I don't know why, but I'm trying not to let on how scared I am. Maybe it's kind of like not showing fear in front of dogs. But I pop the register open, and start to pull out the money. I'm thinking fast, because now I'm looking at the kid and I can see the pulse racing in his neck, and putting it altogether, I figure he's on something; maybe coke, which isn't so bad, but maybe PCP, and then who knows what he'll do? I know a guy who put three cops in the hospital when he was dusted up; he's still doing time in Statesville.
I hand him the money, and the dumbass actually starts to count it. I can't believe what I'm seeing; he hasn't even asked me about the safe, and he's standing in the middle of the store counting his money. I start to think that maybe there's a way I can get out of this after all.
"Hey man, look, let's be cool here, ok?" I say. "This is a piece-of-shit job, and I don't wanna die for some asshole who pays me four bucks an hour. But I'll tell you, man, you've got me pretty scared with that gun pointing at me. At least let me have a smoke while you're ... doing your thing."
I'm doing my best "hey man, we're just guys in this together" schtick, but he just stares at me and grins, and I suddenly realize I'm fucked, because this kid is way more crazy than I thought. He's looking at me with these eyes, like I'm a frog on the 4th of July and he's about to stick a firecracker in my mouth. Empty eyes, I mean, but still with something behind them, something old and evil.
"Kind of like a last cigarette, you mean?" He gives this creepy little laugh, and I feel like I'm trying to swallow a baseball. The gun's still pointing at me, but all of a sudden his hand's not shaking any more. I realize why I didn't want him to know I was scared; he knows he's in control now, and I don't like that one bit.
"Yeah, I guess kind of like that," I say, and my voice doesn't sound like me at all. "That OK?" I'm hoping like hell he doesn't shoot me just for asking.
"Sure, man, why not?" he says, nodding his head to where my smokes and lighter are sitting on the counter behind me.
I turn away from him, trying to get my body between him and what I'm doing. I make a big show of getting the cigarette out of the pack; actually, I don't have to try that hard, because I'm covered in sweat and my hands are shaking way worse than his were. I can feel this itchy spot in the middle of my back, and I imagine that's where the gun's pointing; I keep wondering if I'll hear it or feel it first.
So I get my smoke in my mouth, light it, and with my lighter still in one hand, I make my move. See, I'd decided when I first took this job that I wasn't going to be totally defenseless. The boss made a big deal out of how we couldn't bring any kind of weapon to work, not even a pocket knife, even though this place isn't in the best part of town. So I remembered how in auto shop we used to mess around with the cans of ether starter fluid, and you could get a flame from one of those bad boys that'd go 15 or 20 feet.
So I've got one sitting right there on the counter, and while I'm messing with my smokes I get a grip on it. I wait, and I'm listening for the kid to move behind me, and finally he says, "Hurry the fuck up, asshole!"
"OK, man, OK," I say, re-lighting my lighter as I turn around. This is one time I'm glad I've got a Zippo instead of some childproof piece of crap, because there's no way I could light one of things right now. As I finish my turn, I squeeze down on the cap on the starter fluid, and throw myself sideways all at once.
The gun goes off, and I hear a bottle break right next to my head. I feel my bladder let go, and I'm hitting the floor on one shoulder, but somehow I've still got that flame square in the face of the kid with the gun. Only he isn't the kid with the gun anymore, because he's dropped it; he's got his hands over his face, and he's screaming non-stop. His hands aren't helping, though, because his whole head's on fire, and it seems to be taking forever, but I keep the flame going, because I don't know where the gun is and I sure as shit don't want him finding it right now.
So by this time I'm back on my feet, wet crotch and all, and the kid's stopped screaming. I think he's gotten a good deep breath of the ether flame, because he's making this horrible hacking sound and staggering in little circles in front of the counter.
And right about that time the can's empty, and the flame stops, and the kid's falling, and it's all in slow motion. He had a handful of money when I zapped him, and little charred pieces of greenbacks are settling around him as he hits the floor.
Then all of a sudden it's really quiet; the kid shakes a couple of times, and then stops, and there's this horrible smell, like burning shit. His hair's all gone, and most of his face, and I'm pretty sure he's dead. But just in case, I hop the counter and grab the gun off the floor, and hold it on him while I call the cops.
He doesn't move the whole time the cops are on their way, which seems like forever. When they show, it's a couple of guys I know; I've given them free coffee, like we always do, so they're pretty cool with me when I tell them what happened. Of course, my boss gets called in, and then I have to go downtown to make a statement.
So I'm at the precinct house, and I'm talking to another couple of cops that I've never seen before. The whole thing's got me pretty fucked up, especially when they tell me the kid was only fourteen, and I start to wonder if there was something else I could have done. But I keep remembering those eyes, and I figure there wasn't. The one cop is pretty cool, saying that he knows how I feel because he had to shoot some guy on the job one time, which I guess is kind of the same feeling. But the other guy's a real prick, telling me I should be proud of myself, especially when it comes back that the kid's gun was the same one that shot the cashier in that holdup the week before.
I don't feel proud. I feel glad I'm here listening to this asshole talk instead of lying in the cooler at the Fill & Serve, but I wish he'd shut the fuck up, especially when he starts telling me what a good citizen I am and that there'll probably be a reward in it for me.
Well, finally he does shut up, and the other cop walks me out. He asks if I need a ride some place, which I guess I do, so we head toward the parking lot.
As we're going out past the front desk, there's this woman sitting there crying, with some female cop trying to comfort her. She has one of those square faces, European, maybe Polish, and she doesn't look like she belongs in a police station.
She looks up at me, and something freezes in her face. I realize I'm still wearing my Fill & Serve smock; they're these ugly brown polyester things you can't miss, and she's spotted it. She stands up and gets right in my face.
"You killed my son tonight," she says.
She says it really quietly, like she just told me it was raining. I'm looking at her, and I'm just floored. I don't know if I should say I'm sorry, or what. All I can think is that she has an accent, so maybe I'm right about her being Polish.
"You know, he wasn't such a bad boy," she says, and then the woman cop has her by the arm pulling her away from me, and I'm just left standing there with nothing at all to say.
