A quiet Sunday morning. He wanted a pack of Swisher Sweets,
cigars the pot smokers empty of tobacco and use as blunts.
I'd seen enough of this in four years at the gas station
and asked for identification. Almost always it was handed over
but this guy didn't want to, or maybe he didn't have it with him,
or maybe he was younger than he looked. I grabbed the pack,
and shrugged. He said put them back on the counter, or else.
I made a quarter over minimum, no benefits. I lived in a trailer,
week to week, hand to mouth, and lately there were rumors
the company was sending spies to catch cashiers selling to minors.
If they snagged you, you were fired on the spot. I told him no.
I pointed at the sign that said Sorry, No ID, No Service.
I smiled, sorry pal, and shrugged again. He picked up the sign
and threw it at me. It bounced off my arms and ricocheted
into the other cashier, a girl I was training.
A store right up the street sold Swisher Sweets also,
but now he was picking up the Sunday paper and hurling it
at my head, newsprint flying everywhere like dirty gulls.
He told me after work he'd kick my ass.
I laughed-- it was ridiculous-- and he threw another paper.
I picked up the phone and pretended to call the police.
I had to fake it because the police never arrived for assault.
Anything less than a head shot wasn't worth their time.
But it did the trick. The guy hustled outside to his car,
screaming he'd be back later, and skidded out in reverse
until he was riding up the road. After work I waited for him,
but he never came. They never do. Easy to be brave when a man
is working, when the counter and his job separate you from him,
when you are attacking civilization rather than running up against
another form of chaos. I walked home to my trailer that night,
wishing he came back, saddened that even our thugs are wimps.