[I thought I was oh so clever with this story. Sure, it is
pretty funny, but there is no way this could ever happen in real life. Well,
maybe in the ‘Forties, but that wasn’t something I had in mind at the time.
This is probably one of the better of my mediocre stories. It appeared in
Detective Mystery Stories November 2003, and they wanted more work from me. It
was an intimate little ‘zine, and I was glad to be welcomed to the family. It
wouldn’t be the last time they published me.]
I used to love hold-ups. Not committing them, but being the
target. That was why I took the job as night shift attendant at the gas station
out on old route 40; it holds the state record for being held-up, and I
intended to be in on that action.
They just about handed me the job on a silver platter. Bob,
my boss, took me aside just after he’d finished training me. “I think it’s only
fair to tell you,” he said, “that this place gets robbed a lot. I know—”
“That’s fine,” I said. “No worries.”
“Really?” He laughed. “That’s a relief, ‘cause that’s when I
usually lose new employees. They get scared and quit before they even start.”
“I’m cool with it.”
He went on to tell me that in the event of a robbery, I should
give up the money without comment. “But, if you get the chance—and you don’t
have to, I’m certainly not telling you to, if you dig—we have a loaded .38
revolver back here.” He pointed it out behind the counter. “I’m just talkin’
here—”
“Of course,” I said.
“—but I’d be grateful if we didn’t get robbed. Very
thankful, you know?”
“Yeah.”
And that was it. I was officially the night shift attendant.
I remember when I was a kid. My dad was a bartender in a
hole in the wall sleaze pit in the city, but during the days, he’d let me and
my friends hang out and play board games. Free sodas. We were playing Hotels
when the man in the stocking mask came in and demanded Dad’s money. Dad, a
loyal employee, gave the robber two barrels worth of buckshot. He was a local
hero from then on.
I was working at a liquor store on the other side of town
when a guy in a fake Groucho mask walked in, pointed a shotgun in my face, and
politely asked me for everything in the register. Very calmly, I reached for
the money and “accidentally” knocked a couple of pint bottles to the floor.
They shattered, grabbing his attention long enough for me to knock the shotgun askew
and plant three .45 slugs into Groucho’s chest. He died, and I got a raise.
The glory wasn’t enough for me. I craved for more action,
and two months later, another guy held me up. Once again, I emerged victorious,
except the fact that I’d killed two people made management nervous. They gave
me an excellent severance package and “let me go.”
I worked in a series of liquor stores and gas stations, and
the first time I killed a robber, I always got a raise. The second time, I
always got fired. Constantly, it was the same, which was why I had such high
hopes for my new job.
The first night I was on, a crack fiend held a fork in my
face and demanded my money. I held the gun to his forehead, and he changed his
mind. It was a shame. The camera picked it up, and my boss gave me a bonus, but
I didn’t get to kill anyone.
Two hours after that happened, a guy came in wearing
sunglasses—yes, at night—a fake beard, a floppy hat, and a trench coat that was
too big for him. He started asking questions, like how much money there was in
the cash register at any given time, when did they take the money out, etc. I
told him the place was loaded right now, though there was only about a hundred
and change in the register. He looked tempted for a moment, and I dearly hoped
he had a shotgun under his coat. I tried sending him mental messages: rob me
rob me rob me.
“Wow,” he said. “That’s something.” And he walked out the
door.
After that, three whole weeks went by, and there wasn’t so
much as a threat. I was starting to get antsy, wondering if talk about the gas
station being robbers’ favorite target was only a myth. If things didn’t pick
up, I feared I’d have to get another job.
Finally, I got my wish. It was my fourth week at the gas
station. A man with a ski mask ran into the store, held a .45 in my face, and
demanded all my money and a box of beef sticks. I took the money from the register
and “accidentally” dropped it while handing it to the robber. He bent down to
pick it up, and I shot him in the top of his head. Once again, I was a hero.
Three days later, another guy—as it turned out, it was the
man in disguise who had been asking questions earlier—came in and, you guessed
it, held a revolver in my face and demanded money. I could see the inside of
the cylinder: every chamber was empty. I simply reached for the .38 and blew
him away.
The pattern held: Bob fired me.
From then on, I couldn’t get a job. Everyone knew my
reputation; owners appreciated my ability to defeat armed robbers, but none of
them wanted the dubious distinction of having a known killer work for them. It
seemed there would be no more thrills for me.
The logical conclusion was for me to become an armed robber
myself. I already had a big, scary .44 revolver. I stole my girlfriend’s
pantyhose for a mask. In no time, I was headed back to old route 40, to the gas
station.
I stepped into the store, ready to shout out the speech I’d
practiced for three days. Theatrically, I cocked the gun. “Gimmie the—” I
started, but I didn’t get the chance to finish.
The clerk must have seen me coming before I entered the
store. He held the .38 on me from the moment I walked inside. When I cocked the
gun, he fired, shooting me in the chest. I don’t remember much after that. I
woke up in the hospital, where the doctor told me I had received a sucking
chest wound and had almost died. The cop told me I had the right to a lawyer.
I got better, had my trial—which was a hoot, believe me;
very intense—and got sentenced to prison, where I’m writing this story now. I
don’t have much time left here, and when I get out, I think I’ll quit my
involvement with hold-ups. Getting shot changed my views on the subject.
Besides, I’ve got a new addiction: courtroom drama. I can’t
wait for my next trial . . .
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