I love the nightlife - cold as it can be. The position of convenience store clerk is among the most dangerous jobs in the United States. Every day the lower class eats itself away in a battle between honest workers and common thugs. Less than a fortnight ago, I ended my state sponsored vacation to become a third shift cashier for a major convenience store chain. Dying in the service of corporate America is an abominable tragedy.
After three years of damnation to afternoons and dreaded mornings, crisp night air and comforting black skies are once again my reward for dragging ass out of bed. I soak in the evening during my walk to work, where a maintenance routine is my primary responsibility. On Friday at 1 a.m., my routine got shot full of holes.
As I was alone writing off old doughnuts, a tall man wearing a black mask pointed a revolver at me. I went numb. "Open the safe," he barked at me as I walked behind the counter. He should have known the impossibility of a cashier opening a safe. I thought that if my survival hinged on his procuring the safe's contents, then I was screwed. "Don't do nothin' stupid," he gruffly advised me. This gunman was obviously intoxicated with a power trip and attempting a Charles Bronson impersonation. Belting out that robbery cliché must have made him feel special. "I ain't tryin' nothin' stupid," I calmly reassured him.
I disregarded his demand for the safe and cracked open my register. A second man, the lookout, was standing at the entrance and keeping the door open. They strongly urged me to hurry up. I locked eyes with the armed man as he grabbed the bills from my drawer and demanded more. I had been making eye contact with him the entire time when I suddenly remembered reading that cashiers shouldn't look at robbers. I averted my eyes and happily granted his request for additional funds. I signed on to the other two registers and set their drawers on the counter.
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