Gas Station

Cass waltzed into the gas station near his house for some coffee and a pack of cigarettes, and possibly more beer. This was his usual cure for a hangover, which was particularly awful this night. The attendant behind the counter was familiar with Cass and said a quick hello before ringing up the next customer. The store was laid out much like any other convenience store. There really wasn’t anything different about this one. Excepting that one particular customer was walking around the beer section with his left hand in his jacket pocket. It looked as though he had a gun and was planning to hold up the store. Cass initially thought that he should ignore this threat. He thought maybe he was wrong about the gun, and the customer had a balled fist inside his pocket. 

I was wrong. The customer in question walked directly up to the employee behind the counter. He pulled his now known gun out and shot the employee, Oscar, in the head. This wasn’t even a robbery as the murderer ran out of the shop without taking so much as a chocolate bar, much less the cash in the register. I didn't know Oscar had any enemies, but apparently I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did. I couldn’t even run after him. I didn’t even look at the aftermath of what this man did to my friend. There wouldn’t be much of a body left, I’d imagined. The gunshot was only three feet from Oscar’s face. This would have made Oscar’s head no more. Just a headless body like something out of a horror film, presumably at the beginning of the movie to awaken people’s need for a sense of violence, even fictional. I didn’t need or want what happened there that night. 

I was the only other person in the store. The events after this were a blur. A ringing remained in my hearing long after I heard the gunshot. It was like a tinnitus from hell. My hearing never went back to normal. Shortly afterwards a barrage of sirens were outside, and they didn’t create a cacophony as they usually do. My head was a tunnel of echoed sound. Nothing, not even my senses felt real. I was in complete denial to even my immediate surroundings. 

Twelve cop cars pulled up, and I realized I’d have to promptly give an account of what occurred, me being the only eye witness to the horrid occurrence. I was woefully underprepared to recount the gory details of the quite apparent massacre I had just seen. I felt a strong and sudden urge to drink, but it was unwise to run to the beer section and grab a beer, seeing as there was no way now to pay for it. Oscar was the owner and only employee of his store, and there were no other employees to ring up the alcohol. Not that this was an appropriate time to get plastered. Still, the urge to imbibe myself only grew. I am a known alcoholic, and I had never sought treatment for it. It wasn’t that big of an issue in my mind then. I actually originally went into the store for a six-pack. 

The officer seemed to be trained well in dealing with witnesses to violent crimes. I explained to him that Oscar was a vague friend of mine, and he willingly empathized. His concern for my loss didn’t feel sardonic or rushed. I actually believed that he cared. I felt this was a rare thing to find in a cop. As he took down a description of the perpetrator and the events, I thought of all the ways I took Oscar for granted. I never said much more than a: “hello, how are you?”. I didn’t even know his birthday or if he had kids. I suppose I only called him friend to personalize the story I had to the cop. There wasn't really a connection there as I had hoped with my “friend” now post-mortem. 

The shop, on the other hand, was oddly untouched. It was pristine as ever. Oscar took pride in his work, something I truly admired. Granted he was self employed, which seems to give people some ounce of joy in their day to day lives. I never cared as much about performing at my job at the chocolate factory. I didn’t feel like Willy Wonka at his magical castle of candy. I felt like a slave to big chocolate. 

Anyway, the cops took me into questioning. There were still an abhorrent number of them. I could assume they were there for not much else then taping off the crime scene. No one else should ever see how much blood was behind the counter. That was the only “untidy” thing about the shop that night. 

It was clear to me that I wasn't going to get much sleep that night. The scene still played out behind my eyes as I tried to close them and sleep.

Eventually I must have slept because the daylight now swept my entire living room like some ghoulish unwanted cheer. It revealed my now wrecked apartment. I had gotten quite drunk the night of the murder, understandably so. I had gone directly to the liquor store from the police station the night before. Still there though were the bottles to tell of the pity party I had last night. That's the thing about pity parties, no one comes when you invite them. 

I did, in fact, attempt to invite my ex. She was the only one I felt I could call. I was hoping for some sort of comfort after the night I had. She didn’t even pick up the phone. I left a long and drunken voicemail. I'm sure this will in time bite me in the ass. As I began to clean up my apartment, a thought occurred to me. What if I were to be killed in some inane fashion on a random Tuesday night? I resolved to fix myself, quit drinking. This awful event was to be the start of something new. Something better.

It is only now apparent that I am still drinking on my couch, recounting with some sick obsession over the night Oscar had died. I reminisce about the time I decided to clean up my act, and I hate myself for never doing just that.