Time to Go

Where are all the good people?

Where are all the good people?

I wonder this as I sit behind the counter of 7-11 at 2 in the morning, my heart pounding in my ears as two men in black hoods point a gun at me. Money, they are demanding. Money. As if it's the most important thing in the world, the greatest treasure, the answer to all life's problems. I blink at them, trying to control my trembling as I reach for my cash register.

Money. Yeah, I'll give them as much as they want. As much as I have in here, anyway. It isn't mine so it really shouldn't matter much to me. Maybe it's just the fact that they are threatening me. This is a transaction, after all- money in exchange for my life. As I grab the stacks of twenties, I briefly wonder how much my life is worth in this particular transaction. Five hundred dollars? A thousand? 

It's not like I have wads of hundreds in the cash register at 2 in the morning. The only customers I've had in the past hour were a couple cars driving through for gas, and a man who smelled strongly of weed that bought a pack of cigs and a roll of scratch tickets. I wonder if he won anything. 

"Here," I tell them, thrusting as much money onto the counter as I can. Take it all, I want to say, but nothing comes out of my mouth. It's not like they were planning on leaving any of it behind.

The man with the gun puts it away into his back pocket and begins grabbing as much as he can. The other guy proceeds to do the same. I sit there behind the counter, my eyes wide as I watch them grab the bills like they were starving children and it was the only food in sight. I felt extremely nauseous suddenly. 

It only took them a few seconds to grab it all, and then they were out of there, running out of the door into the cool night. I sat by myself for a few moments as my shock began to wear off. Being alone now all of a sudden felt very eery. The hum of the coolers in the back was much louder than I remembered, and the AC blowing through the vent above me felt even colder. I looked down at the empty cash register and realized that now would be a good time to call the cops. But even so, I found myself not wanting to. I realized that I didn't want the cops to show up, to question me and to write down my statement, only to shove it into some file that would be forgotten about, left behind to rot in the dust. 

But my mind knew what was practical. If I weren't to call them and file a report, it would only be a matter of time before the cops showed up at my house, accusing me of robbing the 7-11 myself. 

My body felt very heavy. 

I grabbed my cell phone and managed to stand up on my shaky feet. I used to counter for support as I walked around it and out the door into the buzzing, bright lights of the gas station. I looked down at my phone and pressed the dreaded 3 numbers. 

Here goes nothing.