Patrick Parks

Stick-Up Man

When the man came in, he seemed nervous until he took a gun from his pocket and pointed it at Bruce. That seemed to calm him down.

“I need whatever money you’ve got,” the man said.

Bruce knew that this day would come. His wife had warned him not to take the job because convenience stores were always robbed and the clerks frequently shot, especially on the overnight shift. So even though Bruce was not surprised, it was not what he expected. When he imagined the inevitable, based on movies, it was always one or two Black men who barreled into the store, their pistols turned sideways, screaming at him that if he didn’t empty the cash register they were going to blow his motherfucking head off. But the man standing next to the counter, except for the gun, did not look that much different from himself. He was, like Bruce, balding and droopy-eyed, a little soft, and dressed, as Bruce used to dress before his current occupation required him to wear a uniform: khaki pants, a button-down shirt, and a dark navy zip-up jacket. In the hand not holding the gun, he had a ski mask that he must have forgotten to put on. Bruce felt sorry for him and decided he would help him out by raising his hands.

“No, don’t do that,” the man said. “If someone driving by sees you, they’ll call the police. I’m not going to shoot you, but I do want you to give me whatever money is in the till and whatever else there might be back in the office.”

“There’s nothing in the office,” Bruce said. “Well, there is, but it’s in the safe, and I have no idea what the combination is. Only the manager has that. And the assistant manager, too, I think. I’m not one hundred percent.”

“Okay,” the man said, nodding. “I’ll take what’s in the register.”

After the man had left and Bruce had called the police, he decided he was not going to tell them anything about the robber. He was not sure why he had come to that conclusion. Maybe it was the ski mask. When he was questioned, he said he was so frightened that he could not recall a thing.

“Was he a young man?”

“Maybe,” Bruce said, rubbing his forehead. He thought the gesture would reflect bewilderment. “Not twenties-young, if that’s what you mean. And he wasn’t black. I do know that. Probably white, guessing from his voice. The mask made it hard to tell for sure. And the gloves. He wore leather gloves.”

“Was he tall?”

“I would say not tall. Medium, maybe.”

“Did you notice if he drove away in a car? Was anyone waiting for him?”

The officer asking the questions was patient but persistent. At some point, Bruce realized the conversation had looped back and he was being asked the same things again. Finally, the policeman thanked him and left. By then, the store manager had arrived. He was upset, but he was mainly concerned about Bruce’s well-being. He wrapped an arm around Bruce and gave him a hug.

“You did the right thing,” he said. “Don’t argue. Give them the money. It’s that simple.”

The manager’s name was Phil Wilton, and he was two years younger than Bruce. He had worked at the convenience store for a long time, and he had once told Bruce that he was hoping to move up in the company, be a regional manager or go even higher.

“I’m calling corporate today and telling them that we need closed-circuit TV cameras. I’ve asked for them for years, but they always tell me we’re not in a crime zone. I’ll be curious to find out what they say now.”

Phil told Bruce to go home.

“You’ve had enough excitement for one night. I’ll call Dennis and have him come in early. I can cover until then.”

Bruce thanked him, then went to the back room to get his jacket and the paper bag with his uneaten sandwich and apple. His car was in the shop with a muffler problem, and he thought for a minute about calling his wife to pick him up, but it was very late, she was a heavy sleeper, and he knew she would use the opportunity to remind him once again of the danger he had put himself into despite her warning him not to. He would catch a bus. The stop was just a few blocks away, and it was a pleasant enough night.

The convenience store and the bus stop were both on a main thoroughfare, which meant plenty of streetlights. Given the evening’s earlier event, the illumination might have made Bruce feel safer, but he had not really felt unsafe, even with a gun pointed at him. He wondered if he was in shock and if later, when he got home, he would start to shake and hyperventilate and need to sit down. Now, he felt just fine.

Because it was so late, there was very little traffic, and the businesses on this stretch—a handful of car dealerships, an appliance store, and other establishments whose purpose he could not ascertain—were closed. On the next block, though, there was a restaurant with a neon sign that reported “Pancakes 24 Hours.” Judging from the single car in the parking lot, not many people were hungry. As he passed the front window and looked in, Bruce could see that the place was empty except for one booth where the man who had robbed him not an hour ago speared a fork into a sausage and took a bite.

Bruce stopped and watched as the man continued to eat, pouring syrup over a stack of pancakes, cutting off a mouthful with the side of his fork, washing it all down with coffee. At one point, he paused and seemed to take a deep breath. Then he looked out the window and saw Bruce. He set his fork down, smiled—sheepishly, Bruce thought—and waved him inside. 

A waitress and a cook were sitting at a table near the kitchen when Bruce entered. Neither seemed to notice him. He walked to the man’s booth.

“Sit down,” the man said, still smiling. He gestured at the seat across from him, and Bruce slid in, unzipped his jacket and put his paper bag on the table. The man took another drink of coffee.

“You want a cup?” he asked. “My treat.”

“No, it’ll just keep me awake.”

“Well, I’m going to finish my meal before it gets cold, if that’s all right. I feel self-conscious eating in front of people as a rule, but…” With a couple of bites and a thorough sopping up of syrup with the last hunk of pancake, the man cleared his plate. Another swallow of coffee, a dabbing of his mouth with a napkin, and he was through.

“There,” he said. “I haven’t had good pancakes in ages. I’m glad this place was so close. You must come here quite a bit, I’m guessing.”

“No,” Bruce said. “I never have.”

“Well, I recommend it next time you get hungry for pancakes. I suppose their waffles have to be pretty good, too.” He pushed his plate to the side and leaned forward. “Sorry about the gun,” he said.

“Was it loaded?”

“Yep. If it’s not loaded, I lose my nerve.”

“Get you something?” Without Bruce’s noticing, the waitress had made her way to their booth.

“Coffee,” Bruce said. He took his jacket off and laid it next to him on the seat.

“Oddly enough,” the man said, pointing at Bruce’s nametag, “my name’s Bruce, too.”

Bruce nodded. “That is odd.”

“So, is this a coincidence or fate? Our meeting at the store and then again here?”

“No idea.”

The waitress returned and put a white mug in front of Bruce. Coffee sloshed over the rim and made a puddle on the table. When the waitress left again, Bruce took a napkin from the holder and set the cup on it. The man, the other Bruce, leaned even farther forward.

“What did you say to the police? You did call them, didn’t you?”

“I had to. I was robbed.”

“What did you say?”

Bruce shrugged. “Not much. I didn’t tell them what you look like.”

The other Bruce leaned back and smiled.

“Nobody ever does,” he said.

“Why is that?”

“Why didn’t you?

“I don’t know for sure. You didn’t seem threatening. Kind of pathetic, actually.”

“That’s the key. I’m pathetic.”

“No, I didn’t mean pathetic.” Bruce held up his hands. “I meant—”

“Don’t apologize. It’s what I am. It’s why I’m good at this.” He grinned. “Who wants to be the one to get a pitiful guy like me arrested?”

Bruce bumped his cup and spilled more coffee. He took another napkin and wiped the tabletop.

“So, is this how you make a living?”

“Not entirely. I was a draftsman at an engineering firm before it folded. Now I stock shelves at a grocery store. Me and a bunch of kids my son’s age. Now that’s pathetic.”

“Well, I used to be an accountant for a company that was shut down because of fraud. It was on the news.” Bruce finished his coffee, wadded the napkins and shoved them into his cup.

The other Bruce signaled to the waitress that he was ready for the check. She brought it and then cleared away the dirty dishes.

“I’ll get this,” the other Bruce said. He smiled, took a handful of bills from his jacket pocket,  counted out three and dropped them on the table. “I’m a generous tipper.”

Bruce slid out of the booth, put his coat on, picked up his paper sack. The other Bruce put a hand on his shoulder and turned him toward the door.

“Want a lift?” he said.

“I was going to take the bus.”

“No, don’t do that. I’ve got time. My car’s in the lot.”

Bruce followed him out. A semi rumbled past, its cab outlined with yellow lights. He watched it roll down the street and pass the convenience store. He thought of Phil Wilton standing behind the counter watching the same truck, and then he saw himself standing there, too, the pair of them, wondering where the truck was headed.

“This is a beautiful night,” the other Bruce said. 

“It is,” Bruce said, reaching for the handle on the car’s passenger side. “Where’d you get your gun?”

Patrick Parks is author of a novel, Tucumcari, and has had fiction, poetry, reviews and interviews appear or are forthcoming in a number of places, including Ocotillo Review, Bridge Eight, Full Stop, Southeast Review, Six Sentences, Another Chicago Magazine, The Chattahoochee Review, OxMag, and elsewhere (the adverb, not the publication). He is a graduate of the University of Iowa's Writers' Workshop, a recipient of two Illinois Arts Council artist grants, and lives with his wife and requisite cats near Chicago. More at patrick-parks.com.