Money

“Okay. Next one. You ready?” The stout man with the black toupee pauses.

Marti looks over from her spot at the lottery machine. “Yeah. Go ahead,” she offers, her voice flat. 

“Gimme four, two, one, three-–fifty cents boxed. And fifty cents straight on a separate ticket.”

The door buzzes. “Hello,” Marti acknowledges automatically, without looking over. “Is that all?” she wonders.

“Sure—send ‘em through!” The man slaps the counter enthusiastically. “And grab me a couple of those ten dollar scratchers—your choice as long as they’re winners.”

“Yeah, yeah. No refunds. It’s thirty.” She exchanges tickets for bills.

“Alright dear. I’ll see you tomorrow.” As he heads for the door, he taps the sides of the tickets on the counter a few times.

“I’ll be here.” Her fingers race over the register buttons. As the drawer opens, she looks up. The man before her wears a surgical mask, dark glasses, and a faded hoodie. She’s slightly amused every time someone comes in, still scared to death of COVID. Yet, it’s easier to pretend not to notice. She closes the drawer. “How can I help you?” she wonders.

The man brings a gloved hand out from within his hoodie pocket and steps forward, thrusting a gun towards Marti’s face. “You know what to do,” he says in a voice sounding oddly strained. 

“Oh, Jesus! Is that a Glock 17?!” She tilts her head to try to see better. 

The man involuntarily shakes his head in disbelief. “Money!” he snarls.

“That’s like a fucking five-hundred dollar pistol!” Marti presses the “no sale” button, then tears a plastic bag from the roll. “Quite honestly, you’d prob’ly do better hocking that shit than robbing the fucking gas station.” She begins pulling bills from the drawer and stuffing them in the bag. “I don’t even know why the fuck y’all still think that’s a good idea. You’re gonna get about a hundred bucks, tops. And I can’t imagine that’s worth it.” She begins scooping coins. “Of course, there’s about 850 bucks in the safe for change between coins and bills. But, it’s in tubes and the most that’s in one tube is sixty and I can only drop one tube every three minutes. But, I assume you’re in a hurry. You want me to at least get you a tube of sixty in like fives, or something?” She finishes scooping pennies and moves to the safe, pressing a button. Inside, gears are heard grinding, followed by a plinking sound as the tube drops. She collects it. “You know, if I were you, I’d go shoot one thing in the back room or you’re gonna be screwed ‘cos there’s cameras everywhere. So I’d go take out that box that records all the footage. I could show you, if you want.” She reaches across the counter with the bag, handing it to the man. “Or, you know, you could just not worry about it and the recording of you waving your Glock all up in my face’ll be all over the 6 o’clock news. I’m not threatening you or anything, just letting you know what happened when the Franklin store was robbed.”

If the man’s expression changes, Marti is unable to tell. A few seconds pass before he flicks his wrist, motioning with the gun. “Go.”

She hurries to the back room, the man close behind. Within a collection of similar black boxes, she points to one with a singular blinking red light.

“Do you have anything heavy?” the man wonders in the oddly strained voice.

“Heavy? What do you mean?”

“A brick? Something I could break it with?”

Marti hesitates as the man scans the room. “That door,” he motions with the gun, “does it go to the outside?”

“Yeah. Back of the building. Parking lot.”

“Is there an alarm if it’s opened?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Then hold it open.”

She obeys. When she turns back to the man, he is busy ripping cords from the back of the box. The gun is no longer in his hand, but she doesn’t see what he’s done with it. The box free, he raises it above his head as he approaches the door. Oddly, Marti feels deeply satisfied as she watches it explode on the pavement. She laughs.

The man strides past her, then turns for a moment. “You know, you’re fucked up. But since you’re so intent on helping me out, do me a solid—wait about ten minutes before you call the cops.” He turns and strolls away, hands buried in his hoodie pocket.

Marti lets the door fall shut. It all seems so unreal. In the store, she hears a customer yelling “Hello?” repeatedly. She regards her hand, still resting on the latch of the door. Who is the man? What’s happening in his life to make him so desperate as to rob the gas station? Obviously, he isn’t an experienced criminal. Although, he does have enough sense not to leave any evidence behind. She imagines she is the one he is returning home to, the wife he treasures more than anything. She feels his deep seated sense of duty to provide no matter what. No matter layoffs and economic downturn. No matter email inboxes full of rejection after days of them both endlessly applying to positions listed on Indeed that may or may not even be open. Pitted against hundreds of other applicants. Rare calls for interviews. Dwindling savings. But she never has to worry. Every day, he returns home with a gentle kiss to her forehead, silent on where he has been. Formulating plans for tomorrow. Chasing down leads. How demoralizing it must be to want to do the right thing, but not to have that option. She imagines his voice, soft and casual. “It’s okay, baby. We’ll make it. I gotchu.”

“What the hell are you doing?!” An indignant voice shatters her fantasy. “I’ve been standing out here for ten minutes yelling for service and here you are back here daydreaming! I want your boss’s number!”