Read Online SK01 - Waist Deep by Frank Zafiro - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Frank Zafiro
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stumbled upon a robbery in progress at a Circle K convenience store.
My knee throbbed slightly as if disturbed by my recollection.
“The Shoot-out at the Circle K,” they called it later, as if in some strange homage to the OK Corral. But I was no Wyatt Earp. I managed to shoot and wound the robber as he exited the store, but Morris and his crony shot me up from behind at almost the same time. I’d fired back as Morris walked up to finish me off. Then Officer Thomas Chisolm arrived. He cuffed a dying Morris and took off after the robber. I heard later that the robber had fought with Chisolm and Chisolm had broken his neck.
If anyone was like Wyatt Earp, it was Thomas Chisolm.
The memory caused a bittersweet pang to well up in my chest. I forced it down, patting my pockets for change.
After the shooting, for a brief time, I was the darling of the department. A young cop with stones. Proven by fire. I had the respect of those who’d been through it before and the admiration of those who hadn’t yet.
Within the year, that was all gone.
I ground my teeth, telling myself it was because I didn’t have any change and not because I was thinking about things better left alone.
The bell dinged as I stepped through the glass doors. Warm air and the slight odor of refrigeration washed over me. A white guy in his forties stood behind the counter in his green uniform shirt, eyeing me with a mixture of boredom and suspicion.
I laid a dollar on the counter. “Get some change for the phone?”
He glanced at the crumpled bill and back up at me. “You gotta buy something,” he said simply.
“You’re kidding.”
He shook his head no. “Store policy.”
I looked at his stringy hair and two day’s growth of beard on his cheeks. His eyes were still suspicious, but no longer bored. I tried to imagine his work days for a moment, filled with people buying beer and cigarettes, harried travelers stepping off of eastbound I-90, kids coming in for candy, the constant threat of shoplifters and gas drive-offs.
And don’t forget armed robbers, I thought with a touch of both irony and sarcasm.
A name tag hung sloppily above his left shirt pocket. His name was Don. And Don was not going make any exceptions for me.
I went to the cooler and pulled a plastic bottle of 7-UP from the shelf. “7-UP from the 7- Eleven ,” I hummed to myself, wandering into another aisle and wondering why some ad guys hadn’t come up with it before.
I thought about getting a Snickers bar, but grabbed a packet of two aspirin instead. Don’s eyes had lost their suspicion and were just bored again by the time I set the bottle of soda and the aspirin packet on the counter. He rang up both items, announced the total and I handed him a pair of dollar bills. He returned my change.
“It’s a nice racket,” I told him.
“What’s that?”
“The whole not giving change policy.” I held up the drink and the aspirin. “You made a whole dollar-sixty-one for the company.”
Don’s eyes narrowed a little. “You some kind of smart ass?”
I shrugged. “I’m just sayin’.”
Don regarded me for another moment or two, his dull eyes simmering with anger. “It’s not my policy, all right? It’s store policy. And I’m on video, all shift long. Okay?”
I held my hands up. “ Mea culpa ,” I told him. When he didn’t respond right away, I added, “My fault.”
The anger in his eyes softened back into boredom. “Yeah,” was all he said.
I walked outside, the door dinging behind me. The pop bottle hissed when I cracked it open. I threw the two aspirin to the back of my throat and washed them down with a long draft of 7-UP. I leaned against the telephone bank and sat the bottle on the shelf.
With my eyes closed, I breathed deep through my nose. The odor of spilled motor oil and beer rose from the parking lot, but the even stronger smell of watery trash came from the dumpster that I knew was around the corner of the building. I suppressed a
My knee throbbed slightly as if disturbed by my recollection.
“The Shoot-out at the Circle K,” they called it later, as if in some strange homage to the OK Corral. But I was no Wyatt Earp. I managed to shoot and wound the robber as he exited the store, but Morris and his crony shot me up from behind at almost the same time. I’d fired back as Morris walked up to finish me off. Then Officer Thomas Chisolm arrived. He cuffed a dying Morris and took off after the robber. I heard later that the robber had fought with Chisolm and Chisolm had broken his neck.
If anyone was like Wyatt Earp, it was Thomas Chisolm.
The memory caused a bittersweet pang to well up in my chest. I forced it down, patting my pockets for change.
After the shooting, for a brief time, I was the darling of the department. A young cop with stones. Proven by fire. I had the respect of those who’d been through it before and the admiration of those who hadn’t yet.
Within the year, that was all gone.
I ground my teeth, telling myself it was because I didn’t have any change and not because I was thinking about things better left alone.
The bell dinged as I stepped through the glass doors. Warm air and the slight odor of refrigeration washed over me. A white guy in his forties stood behind the counter in his green uniform shirt, eyeing me with a mixture of boredom and suspicion.
I laid a dollar on the counter. “Get some change for the phone?”
He glanced at the crumpled bill and back up at me. “You gotta buy something,” he said simply.
“You’re kidding.”
He shook his head no. “Store policy.”
I looked at his stringy hair and two day’s growth of beard on his cheeks. His eyes were still suspicious, but no longer bored. I tried to imagine his work days for a moment, filled with people buying beer and cigarettes, harried travelers stepping off of eastbound I-90, kids coming in for candy, the constant threat of shoplifters and gas drive-offs.
And don’t forget armed robbers, I thought with a touch of both irony and sarcasm.
A name tag hung sloppily above his left shirt pocket. His name was Don. And Don was not going make any exceptions for me.
I went to the cooler and pulled a plastic bottle of 7-UP from the shelf. “7-UP from the 7- Eleven ,” I hummed to myself, wandering into another aisle and wondering why some ad guys hadn’t come up with it before.
I thought about getting a Snickers bar, but grabbed a packet of two aspirin instead. Don’s eyes had lost their suspicion and were just bored again by the time I set the bottle of soda and the aspirin packet on the counter. He rang up both items, announced the total and I handed him a pair of dollar bills. He returned my change.
“It’s a nice racket,” I told him.
“What’s that?”
“The whole not giving change policy.” I held up the drink and the aspirin. “You made a whole dollar-sixty-one for the company.”
Don’s eyes narrowed a little. “You some kind of smart ass?”
I shrugged. “I’m just sayin’.”
Don regarded me for another moment or two, his dull eyes simmering with anger. “It’s not my policy, all right? It’s store policy. And I’m on video, all shift long. Okay?”
I held my hands up. “ Mea culpa ,” I told him. When he didn’t respond right away, I added, “My fault.”
The anger in his eyes softened back into boredom. “Yeah,” was all he said.
I walked outside, the door dinging behind me. The pop bottle hissed when I cracked it open. I threw the two aspirin to the back of my throat and washed them down with a long draft of 7-UP. I leaned against the telephone bank and sat the bottle on the shelf.
With my eyes closed, I breathed deep through my nose. The odor of spilled motor oil and beer rose from the parking lot, but the even stronger smell of watery trash came from the dumpster that I knew was around the corner of the building. I suppressed a
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