Read Online Nowhere but Up by Pattie Mallette, with A. J. Gregory - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Pattie Mallette, with A. J. Gregory
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As I stood behind the sliding pane of glass in the kiosk, waiting for my first customer, a man entered the station wearing a dark ski mask. He pointed a gun directly at my face. “Open the door! Open the f—ing door now!” he yelled. My heart raced. I was paralyzed by fear, my eyes bulging out of my head like I was a cartoon character.
He motioned with his gun toward the kiosk door and thundered again, “Open the door!” From the corner of my eye, I could see another masked gunman by that door, impatiently waiting for me to unlock it.
Instead of obeying his instruction, I panicked. I let out a bloodcurdling scream and dove headfirst for safety into the adjoining room where the cash was locked up. I think I scared him more than he scared me.
Preoccupied, my friend hadn’t heard the raving gunman but was startled by my piercing scream and hard landing. “What’s your problem?” she shrieked. She turned her head toward the direction I had just flown out of and saw the gunmen. As the guy by the door yelled at her to open it, she too panicked—and opened the door for him.
Both men shoved their way into the kiosk. One made his way toward me, his steel-toed boots heavily pounding on the floor. As he dragged me into the washroom, I could hear his buddy yell at my friend, “Put the money in the bag! And some cigarettes too!”
My gunman whipped out a long piece of rope and started wrapping it around my wrists. I sat on the floor in an awkward position. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he warned. Slamming the washroom door shut, he left me alone in the dark. I felt a mixture of fear and the chill of the toilet tank pressed against my face. I shivered, listening to the gunmen order my friend around and her whimpers to please not hurt her. I almost didn’t believe what was happening. Are they going to kill us? Rape us? Is this even real?
Then as quickly as it began, the robbery ended. The men left with thousands of dollars and a pillowcase-sized bag full of cartons of cigarettes. Less than five minutes after the gunmen forced their way in, my best friend stumbled into the washroom to get me. Her hands shook like a bowl of jelly as she untied the rope around my wrists. We dialed the police and waited in fear, hoping to God that the gunmen wouldn’t be back. It was the last day I’d ever work there. There was no way I was risking another robbery or something even worse.
Without the gas station job, my money quickly ran dry. Soon I found myself with empty pockets, trying to maintain a high party lifestyle and still pay rent. I had to figure out a way to make money somehow. Ironically, I began a small-potatoes scheme of stealing cigarettes from a low-end chain store. I’d walk in the store, grab a few cartons, hide them under my puffy Starter jacket, and walk out the front door. No one suspected me. My jacket was so huge, I could easily fit four cartons underneath that oversized thing. A pack of cigarettes cost about eight bucks back then, and I sold the entire ten-pack carton for twenty-five. It was a steal (pun intended), but it still didn’t give me the kind of cash flow I needed to keep up my partying.
So I started dealing pot. Other people were doing it at school and making a ton of money. It was quick and easy, and because I looked so young and clean-cut, I was the most unsuspecting drug dealer you could find. I’d buy a few ounces of marijuana or hash and sell it in quarters, half-quarters, or grams, just enough to support my habit. I even sold hash oil too. It’s a miracle I never got caught. I could have gone to jail.
As much trouble as I got into and as many bad habits as I formed in my youth, I can still say it could have been a lot worse. That sounds odd, doesn’t it—calling a drinking, smoking, doping girl who stole and dealt drugs “not that bad”? But there were lines I wouldn’t cross—lines I’m not sure would have been there without those seeds of faith that had been planted
As I stood behind the sliding pane of glass in the kiosk, waiting for my first customer, a man entered the station wearing a dark ski mask. He pointed a gun directly at my face. “Open the door! Open the f—ing door now!” he yelled. My heart raced. I was paralyzed by fear, my eyes bulging out of my head like I was a cartoon character.
He motioned with his gun toward the kiosk door and thundered again, “Open the door!” From the corner of my eye, I could see another masked gunman by that door, impatiently waiting for me to unlock it.
Instead of obeying his instruction, I panicked. I let out a bloodcurdling scream and dove headfirst for safety into the adjoining room where the cash was locked up. I think I scared him more than he scared me.
Preoccupied, my friend hadn’t heard the raving gunman but was startled by my piercing scream and hard landing. “What’s your problem?” she shrieked. She turned her head toward the direction I had just flown out of and saw the gunmen. As the guy by the door yelled at her to open it, she too panicked—and opened the door for him.
Both men shoved their way into the kiosk. One made his way toward me, his steel-toed boots heavily pounding on the floor. As he dragged me into the washroom, I could hear his buddy yell at my friend, “Put the money in the bag! And some cigarettes too!”
My gunman whipped out a long piece of rope and started wrapping it around my wrists. I sat on the floor in an awkward position. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he warned. Slamming the washroom door shut, he left me alone in the dark. I felt a mixture of fear and the chill of the toilet tank pressed against my face. I shivered, listening to the gunmen order my friend around and her whimpers to please not hurt her. I almost didn’t believe what was happening. Are they going to kill us? Rape us? Is this even real?
Then as quickly as it began, the robbery ended. The men left with thousands of dollars and a pillowcase-sized bag full of cartons of cigarettes. Less than five minutes after the gunmen forced their way in, my best friend stumbled into the washroom to get me. Her hands shook like a bowl of jelly as she untied the rope around my wrists. We dialed the police and waited in fear, hoping to God that the gunmen wouldn’t be back. It was the last day I’d ever work there. There was no way I was risking another robbery or something even worse.
Without the gas station job, my money quickly ran dry. Soon I found myself with empty pockets, trying to maintain a high party lifestyle and still pay rent. I had to figure out a way to make money somehow. Ironically, I began a small-potatoes scheme of stealing cigarettes from a low-end chain store. I’d walk in the store, grab a few cartons, hide them under my puffy Starter jacket, and walk out the front door. No one suspected me. My jacket was so huge, I could easily fit four cartons underneath that oversized thing. A pack of cigarettes cost about eight bucks back then, and I sold the entire ten-pack carton for twenty-five. It was a steal (pun intended), but it still didn’t give me the kind of cash flow I needed to keep up my partying.
So I started dealing pot. Other people were doing it at school and making a ton of money. It was quick and easy, and because I looked so young and clean-cut, I was the most unsuspecting drug dealer you could find. I’d buy a few ounces of marijuana or hash and sell it in quarters, half-quarters, or grams, just enough to support my habit. I even sold hash oil too. It’s a miracle I never got caught. I could have gone to jail.
As much trouble as I got into and as many bad habits as I formed in my youth, I can still say it could have been a lot worse. That sounds odd, doesn’t it—calling a drinking, smoking, doping girl who stole and dealt drugs “not that bad”? But there were lines I wouldn’t cross—lines I’m not sure would have been there without those seeds of faith that had been planted
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