The Clerk

[Pawzkat]

Another short story from my creative writing class - wrote this one at eleven pm, three days after it was due, so please excuse grammar errors. (:

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The Clerk

    Blearily staring down the barrel of a handgun, it took the clerk a few seconds before he realized what was going on, and it all clicked into place. Oh, he thought slowly. I’m being robbed, aren’t I? Stiff as a board, the brown-haired man could only watch as the masked fella who stood in front of him waved the tool of potential destruction around, finger on the trigger, before shouting, “The cash registers! Empty them.” Taking his sweet time, the clerk squinted at the man, slowly comprehending this situation he now found himself in. Black ski mask + gun + shouting for money = robber. At least, that was how it was in the movies.

    Speaking of which, who even robbed gas stations? It was a bit silly, to be literally living up to the most notorious cliche in books commonly involving criminals. The classic nab and dash.

    In hindsight, the clerk probably should've been panicking. That was what normal people did right - panic when a maniac had a glock trained on their heart? But this clerk was tired. Tired of this job, of his subpar life. Nowadays, not much emotion filtered through the mass that made up the clerk. The clerk was a machine of flesh and blood, completed the same tasks in a clockwork before rising the next day and doing it again. Day in, day out, from home to work and home again, his schedule rarely differed. He counted change, stocked the shelves, and closed up shop when the moon was high in the inky night. Sure, there was the occasional annoying customer that broke the flow of things, but even after a while those faces blurred into one mass of angry, vexed pedestrians. It just didn’t matter in the long run, so the clerk stood there quietly while those who didn’t know any better slung insults and complaints at him, buzzing around the clerk like flies attracted to a pile of manure. He wasn’t even the manager of the dump, but the masses didn’t care. He wore the badge of employee, and was therefore fair game for their complaints. His name no longer mattered, for it was always the title those angry flies found first.

    There was probably protocol for situations like this, being robbed at gunpoint. Though, the clerk couldn’t recall any of it off the top of his head. Was he even trained? In the three years he manned the counter of the gas station, the brunet couldn’t think of a single day where someone had marched through the double doors and offered formal training. No, he was placed behind the dingy, crumbling block of a counter, and told to count change and look out for angel-faced teenagers with a tendency for sticky fingers. Gunmen weren’t a topic that was ever mentioned.

    Speaking of which, the gunman was apparently getting impatient. Leaning over the counter that separated the clerk from the maniac, the robber had the wonderfully clever idea of poking the clerk with the butt of his gun. “Whaddya some sort of stupid or somethin’?” The man growled, his hooded hazel eyes alight with fury. “Either ya start puttin’ some cash in my hands, or I pop a bullet yer heart.”

    “Right,” he said, speaking up for the first time since the robber had entered the small gas station store. “I’ll, uh, get the registers open for you.” As he reached for the keys stashed beneath the counter, the clerk took in the tremor of his right hand with a frown. It seemed as if he was panicking after all, or some part of him was; the signals just had yet to reach his brain.

    Was it smart to blindly follow the orders of the one robbing your workspace? It wasn’t, but the clerk wasn’t about to put his life on the line for the job that meant next to nothing to him. He was teetering on the brink of the cliff, capable of being pushed into the abyss should the gunman chose to do so. Disobeying probably meant sacrificing his life for his job, and if he lost his job, then so be it. It was a shitty one anyways. Let’s just get this over with, the clerk wanted to say, nay, scream. He was tired of his job.

    After opening up the register, the clerk took a step away from the cash holder, allowing the robber to take his fill. The other man was distracted now, grunting like an animal as he descended upon the register and began to stick fistfuls of cash into the pockets of his tattered coat, gun still clasped within his doughy fingers, although the safety was now on.

    He doesn’t think I’m a threat, the clerk thought to himself, noting this latest development with some semblance of dull satisfaction. Back against the cool cement wall, the clerk continued to look on as the robber utterly slaughtered the contents of the machine.

    When the other’s pockets were stuffed with cash (re: the register was empty), the clerk watched him still with his empty eyes, as the robber straightened his posture, and then turned towards the frozen employee before jerkily bringing the glock upwards once more.

    The clerk closed his eyes when the safety clicked off.