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It’s the Dumb Ones You Have to Watch Out For

Penny Milam

    2 for 2.22, 20 oz. Cokes
    19.89, 24-pack Bud Light
    1961, Hemingway shot himself.
    Planter’s Peanuts, 1.89
    The number of plays Shakespeare wrote—37.
    At the beat-up desk in the back office of the Hwy 75 Sunoco, Sylvia closed the faded manila folder of mark-downs. Whenever she read dates, other numbers popped into the list—novel publications, author death dates, trivial amounts that added up to important things in her old job, but amounted to nothing at the gas station. It was 4:45 in the morning, and she was pretending to be the assistant manager. She’d only been here a month, with no more experience than Erica, the twenty-something girl who shared her shift. But Sylvia was old—at least compared to the other workers— and she could accurately count the till. Plus, she was willing to take responsibility for the set of keys on a plastic Scooby-Doo keyring, so the manager, Tony, had knighted her with the title and 20 cents more per hour.
    The magic marker was drying out, forcing Sylvia to press hard to write sale prices on inmate-orange paper starbursts she would tape to the store windows. She was tired, the office was too-warm with her own breaths, and the marker smell tickled her head with the promise of a headache. Sylvia felt like she was drying out, too.
    Buy 1 Get 1 Free, cans of Pringles
    .50 Off Beef Jerky
    100 Years of Solitude
    The far-off rasping threat of a man’s voice woke Sylvia from her hypnotic task. There was danger in the sandpaper voice, and Erica’s stifled, terrified response confirmed it. Tony had warned Sylvia a robbery was not uncommon on this stretch of highway, especially at night. He’d told her to give them whatever they wanted and call the police after they’d left. There wasn’t nothing in the store worth their lives, he’d whispered confidentially, as if spouting anti-establishment propaganda against Sunoco. She reached for her phone, then realized she’d left it up front. The desktop phone had been busted for months, Tony had told her with a shake of his head, as if correcting the situation was beyond his paygrade. She briefly considered staying in the office until they left—surely Erica would just give them the money and that would be that. But the mantle of authority in the guise of a nametag on her collar—Sylvia S., Asst. Manager, written with the same tired permanent marker in her hand—shamed her enough to leave the office.
    She opened the door cautiously and stepped into the back aisle, where the motor oil and wiper fluid gathered dust. Mirrors bordering the ceiling reflected only three other people in the store—Erica and two men at the front counter. The men faced away from Sylvia, but she assumed they had guns. What would they do if she startled them?
    She evoked her authoritative teacher voice, croaky from disuse, shaky from fear. “Excuse me! I’m the manager, and I’m going to come up front, okay?” Let them have the power, she told herself. Let them feel in control.
    She couldn’t see them directly, but their reflections above her spun around like old-timey gunslingers, a pistol held by one man, a hunting rifle in the hands of the other. Erica was crying, fingers covered her face like a kid playing peek-a-boo.
    “Who the hell is that?” the one with the pistol yelled.
    “I said I’m the manager,” Sylvia repeated clearly. “I’m unarmed. Can I come up front?”
    The Rifle took off down the side of the store; Sylvia tracked his movements in the mirror, sneaking toward her like Elmer Fudd hunting wabbits. A red flannel button-up flapped open over his yellowed t-shirt, his stubbled face nearly hidden by a ballcap pulled low. With her hands raised, she held herself firm, waiting.
    Sylvia felt the double insult of his words joined with the sharp nudge of the rifle butt when he found her. “It’s just some old broad.” He propelled her forward while she kept her head down. Don’t look them in the eye. Be submissive.
    He followed her to the front of the store and around the counter where Erica still cried. Instinctively, Sylvia reached out to hug the sobbing girl. Erica clung to her, drenching her blouse and nametag. Sylvia tentatively raised her gaze, bypassing her escort to make eye contact with the other man, the one with the pistol.
    Dully, it worried her that neither men wore a mask. The Pistol’s face was clean-shaven. He looked surprisingly clean all over, his hair neatly combed, his t-shirt tucked into the straight lines of new denim. Drunk, high, or desperate—he didn’t look like any of those things. The hand holding the pistol was dangerously steady. “Look, we ain’t here to hurt nobody,” he said in a manner that implied he’d practiced his words.
    “But we will,” the man beside her broke in with a hyena laugh. The Pistol tensed, then continued. “We just want the money, ma’am, and we’ll be gone.”
    His manners rankled Sylvia. As if by asking politely, he deserved what was in the register. But Erica’s shaking body and Tony’s warning in her head kept Sylvia from retorting. She shifted Erica to her left shoulder so she could reach the register. The Rifle leaned forward menacingly, but she ignored him. She punched in her code before pushing the button that opened the drawer.
    “Count it,” the Rifle said. “Count it and put it in a bag.” He gestured with the gun to the plastic shopping bags. As she let go of Erica to grab one, the girl crumpled to the floor in a ball of tears. Sylvia froze, unsure how the men would react. The Pistol, concerned, looked over the counter but decided Erica was no threat. He returned his aim to Sylvia, almost apologetically pointing her back to her task.
    She pulled out the twenties and ruffled the edges as she counted, but Rifle said, “Out loud, lady.” She paused, her gray head still down, confused at the request, but complied. Don’t argue with them. Just do what they ask. “Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty...” She counted each section of bills.
    “Nineteen hundred sixty-two...”
    Nineteen Eighty-Four.
    “Two thousand four hundred seven...”
    Fahrenheit 451.
    “Twenty-two thirty-four.” She dropped the last bill in the bag. Not sure if they wanted the change, too, she waited.
    The Rifle cussed. The Pistol simmered with disappointment, too, overlaid with frustration. It radiated through his words. “Not even twenty-five hundred?” He wiped his face with his free hand. “Is there a safe?” His voice evened, salvaging its politeness.
    She nodded. “It’s under the counter here.”
    “Open it.”
    The Rifle was in the way. The first real prickle of fear fingertipped her spine. If she bent over, her face would be even with his crotch and his trigger finger. If she bent over, she couldn’t see them.
    “For God’s sake, get out of her way!” the Pistol chastised, and the rifle and the crotch stepped back, accompanied by a dirty chuckle. Sylvia breathed a relieved sigh but paused. “There’s a timer,” she addressed the shotgun.
    “A what?”
    “A time-delay. I can put in the code, but it starts a 10-minute timer. I’ll have to put in the code again before it’ll open.”
    The Pistol groaned, and the Rifle banged the counter in aggravation. Erica whimpered at the sudden sound but stayed sealed in a fetal position.
    “She could just tell us the code, and then we could lock ‘em in the back office,” the Rifle suggested, which Sylvia thought that was a fine idea. But the Pistol ignored him.
    “Just do it, ma’am.” She bent over, embarrassed beyond logic to hear her joints crackle at the action. She punched in the code.
    4742.
    42, the answer to life, the universe and everything.
    She stood, refusing to support her clenched lower back where it stabbed like lightning. The man let the rifle droop and relaxed back against the counter, as if waiting wore him out. He studied Erica huddled on the floor. “Could you kindly shut the hell up?” The punctuation of the gun made the request less friendly. Never raising her head, Erica muted her crying. Sylvia risked stroking the crown of the girl’s head and softly promised, “It’s going to be fine.”
    Taut, rubber band-stretched minutes passed, and then a quiet sentence broke the tension. “I think I know you.”
    The Pistol had spoken. Since her first brief glance, Sylvia had avoided looking at either man, but his voice compelled her. He met her gaze almost shyly. “You’re Ms. Miller, ain’t you?”
    Good Lord, a student. She gave a gasping, relieved laugh. It was a game she often played in this small town, putting a name to a face once covered with acne and baby fat, now coated with time. She was good at the guessing game, the typical encounter an awkwardly sweet shuffle of identity, as they met as two grown-ups rather than teacher and teenager. Meeting over a gun barrel marred the reunion, but she easily fell into old habits. “Don’t tell me,” she said with a too-bright smile. She studied the man’s face—easily mid-thirties, intelligent hazel eyes, the promise of dimples for happier days. She sifted through ragged, decades-old memories, sorting boys into possibilities, before her mind snagged on a face with a similar shape, a connective tilt of the jaw. “Daniel Nickels.”
    His smile was delighted, dimples arriving, while she shared the out-of-place triumph of guessing correctly. She’d liked Daniel twenty-some years ago, and his likeability made him memorable. Though not a great student, he’d been witty. Maybe had an undiagnosed learning disorder, she remembered vaguely, had trouble stringing his thoughts together into tight sentences. But as people, they’d both respected one another, which she always figured counted for more, anyway.
    “No shit!” the Rifle exclaimed, shoving his ball cap high on his forehead, incredulous at the encounter. Daniel frowned at the language, but Sylvia was in no position to reprimand him. “Ms. Miller! Betcha don’t remember me, do ya? I was one of the dumb ones.” The sorting was much quicker this time—if this was Daniel, then the other man had to be... “Eli Estep.” He hooted and banged the gun against the counter, too enthusiastic for Sylvia’s comfort. She felt the professional need to add primly, “I never thought either of you was dumb.” Eli and Daniel had been placed in her remedial English class; she very clearly recalled Eli as lazy and rude. Not dumb, but mean. He seemed proud she remembered him.
    Daniel was more concerned. He rubbed his face again, the gun hanging limply at his side.
    “It’s good to see you, Daniel.” Sylvia forced herself to sound cheerful. She’d resigned herself to the robbery. Now she just wanted to make sure she and Erica made it out alive. She remembered her concern that their faces weren’t covered. The men hadn’t worried about being identified, but this shared history changed things. She could see the same thoughts working in Daniel’s head, too. He corrected her. “It’s Dan, now, Mrs. Miller.”
    “Well, it’s Ms. Sams, now, Dan.”
    His eye dropped to the tell-tale nametag. “You remarried?”
    “Divorced.” Even now, the word pulsed like a toothache.
    “Huh.” He was quiet for a breath. “You retired?”
    “Yes.”
    “But you still gotta work here?” The gun pointed like an accusing finger to take in the store. She dipped her head. His mouth contracted into an unexpected sneer, weirdly overlapping the remembered teenage face with adult world-weariness. “So, divorced and working in a gas station? Hell.” She stiffened but refused to agree. No one spoke. Even Eli, always quick to run off at the mouth, slyly watched. The only sound was the restricted heavy breathing of Erica, still lost in her folded arms.
    Daniel slammed his hands on the counter, making Sylvia jump. The gun was still in his palm, voicing a metal threat. “You remember in school?” Unpredicted rage dripped from his words. “You told us get a diploma, get a degree. Follow your dreams, you said, we’d amount to something. You remember that?”
    Sylvia smoothed her fear with practiced control. “I remember.”
    He laughed, an unexpected, ugly insinuation. “I guess that was a lie, wasn’t it? ‘Cause here you are and here I am, neither one of us livin’ the dream, are we?” He reached out the gun to insolently stroke her nametag. She forced herself to look him in the eye. She would not flinch. “Why the hell did I ever listen to teachers like you?” He sounded sincerely confused. “Looks like y’all didn’t have any better answers than I did.”
    His accusation was unfair. Sylvia wanted to say, we’re all just doing the best we can. Or, you think it doesn’t kill me that my husband fell out of love and I didn’t? Or, I can’t help it if you feel betrayed. How do you think I feel? But she said none of those things. “What the hell am I supposed to do now?” he asked, and she didn’t give an answer. The man holding her at gunpoint didn’t deserve one.
    The timer on the safe chirped, shattering the atmosphere. Eli stretched his arms like he’d woken from a nap. “Well, Ms. Miller,” he said, “go on ahead and put in your code so we can get goin’.” Daniel turned away as the deed was done—Sylvia punching in the code, squatting like a brooding chicken in the floor, shoveling money into the plastic sack. Eli didn’t make her count it this time, impressed enough by the size of the stacks. She handed the heavy bag up to him, and he grabbed her under the armpit to pull her off the floor. Grinning, he mockingly dipped his head before going around to the customer side of the counter. He handed the bag to Daniel. “Come on, we gotta git.” The men started to leave, then Eli whirled back around. Sylvia held her breath; anger, fear, and shame cradled in her chest like an unbirthed child. Eli’s grin was still there, but it was colder now. “You know, back in American Lit my junior year, you failed me.”
    Her tongue answered before her brain, her own humiliation weaponizing her words. “You failed yourself. I just put a grade on it.”
    The gunshot was almost instantaneous, as quick as a heartbeat, the hunting rifle going off as easily as if Eli had flipped his middle finger at her. “Bitch.” Erica’s screams drowned out anything else. Sylvia ricocheted off the cigarette display to sprawl on the floor behind the counter.
    A rebel yell and a clamor of feet and cursing, then the deceptively cheerful beep of the door’s alarm as it opened and shut.
    Sylvia couldn’t breathe. Her chest felt full and swollen, like she was trying to hold her breath under water. Erica vibrated in her side vision, screaming, still screaming, and Sylvia wanted to quiet and console her. But her hands wouldn’t follow her orders, didn’t reach out like she commanded them. And she was cold. The floor was so cold.
    “Ms. Miller,” Daniel’s voice was beside her, right by her ear, but she couldn’t turn her head to see him clearly. His face ran red and pulsed in her peripheral. “Mrs. Miller, I’m so sorry.” His voice was far away, but she felt a hand against her gasping chest, pushing hard, like a dried-out marker on a starburst cut-out. She tried to smile at him, that career-long impulse to reassure a student impossible to stop.
    When she got home tonight, Sylvia told herself, she would remember Daniel’s face, and she would say a little prayer for all the students she taught and then forgot—all the ones who flowed past her in an ocean of hormones and plans, drifting off to their own futures while she stood on shore, feet stuck in the sand, dutifully waving them off, an empty smile scrawled on her face. She’d think about where they’d ended up, and she’d figure out if she was responsible.
    “Mrs. Miller, can you hear me?” His voice was frightened. “You’re going to be okay, I swear.”
    Sylvie’s thoughts were coming farther apart, like clasped hands letting go. Everything hurt— lungs, heart, brain. The throbbing anguish of her ex-husband smiling on Facebook with his new wife; that last year of school still going by Mrs. Miller so she didn’t have to explain. The shameful acceptance of a gas station job because a teacher’s pension only went so far. Yet Daniel’s face hurt most of all, regret and guilt, sorrow and suffering molded into a bullet that couldn’t be unshot.
    But then, blessedly, because it is one of the only promises that is always kept, nothing hurt.

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