It was a miserable job, working the graveyard shift at the 7-11.  I started at eleven and stayed until seven.  Some people thought this was funny.  For the first hour, I shared the store with a Pakistani who thought it was funny to grab my ass in front of the customers and call me queer.  He thought it was funny until I slammed his head into the deli case.  I was certain I’d be fired from my $5.45 an hour job the next day but I wasn’t.  Apparently filling the graveyard shift is too difficult. 

The store was located in San Diego’s busiest beach community on the corner of the busiest street.  During the week, business dropped off after midnight and my only company was the police and the drug addicts.  The police came in and helped themselves to whatever they liked.  They came to the counter to pay and I waived them away.  I figured that free handouts would keep them coming around and someday I might need them for something more than masturbation fantasies.  Sometimes the police sergeant would come around and I would pretend to make the rookies pay.  When the sergeant left, I’d give the money back.  The drug addicts were predominately speed freaks.  They shook as they walked, their eyes darting around or completely still and dilated.  Mostly they wanted sugar  for which they paid with handfuls of pennies collected from the beach.  I got tired of counting miserably grimy pennies and made a new rule:  no pennies from speed freaks.  They got mad but left when they saw the police coming.

The weekend was so busy that the Pakistani stayed an extra hour to help with the beer rush.  State law required us to stop selling alcohol at two in morning.  As the bars closed, half-drunk people lined up to buy cases of beer and bottles of cheap liquor.  As the deadline approached, people would race through the door yelling “Am I too late?  Am I too late?”  If they were, they’d beg and try to bribe me.  Women offered to give me blow jobs.  Guys offered me money and called me queer when I said no.  With the exception of a blond marine who let me fuck him in the cooler, I never violated the liquor law.

After thirty days the store manager called me for a performance appraisal.  “We’re giving you a raise to $5.50!” he said with real enthusiasm.  “We don’t give everyone the whole nickel, but you’re doing an exceptional job.”

Christmas eve found me sitting behind the counter surrounded by Marlboro Christmas albums and Joe Camel stocking stuffers (either one free with a three pack purchase).  It was a silent night if you didn’t count the whir of the slurpy machine and the beer coolers.  I was half asleep when he wandered in.  He walked right up to the counter and put the gun to my forehead.  The safe was on time lock and the cash register held just twenty dollars.  His eyes were bloodshot with pupils that had swallowed the iris.  I couldn’t move.  The gun was so cold it had frozen my body.  I stared at him.  My body would not move.

There was a crash as the front door flew open and a police officer tackled the man.  The gun flew across the store and spun under a soda machine.  “Call 911!” the police officer screamed at me as they wrestled on the floor.  I did.  “There is someone trying to kill a police officer in my store,” was all I said the operator.  Suddenly my head was filled with sirens and shouting.  The store filled with police.  None of them seemed to notice me.

I picked up the telephone and called the store manager at home.  “You need to come to the store,” I said.  “There isn’t anyone here to watch it because I quit.”

More...