Chester's Last Day

The only difference between him and I was the shotgun he was holding. Seeing how no one in the room knew he even existed until a few moments prior when he broke through the door it became apparent to me that he was only taking this action because he had to. If I had endured the same life as he I would probably be the one with the twelve gage Winchester in my hand. The blood from the middle aged “hero” was starting to seep through my pressed Dockers. I thought of ways to knock the gun from his hand. I wanted to pull of that ridiculous cliché ski mask and reveal his identity. I wanted people to read my name in the papers the next morning. “Local man, Michel Felix, takes down gunman in donut shop.” I knew that if I tried a stunt like that I would end up just like the recently deceased man awkwardly lying adjacent to the broken coffee pot.

I wondered if the dead man was going to be late for work now that he was unable to drive himself there. Shaking to the point she could not do the job he instructed her to do, the teenaged soon to be mother let out a rhythmic gasp. She seemed to be choking on the air that surrounded her as her acrylic covered fingernails reflected the neon sign dangling in the window. Up until this point it had been swaying back and forth after being upset by the desperate attacker. His voice led me to think that he was about twenty years old. His often use of the word, “Fuck” led me to believe he was uneducated.

His constant uses of the world made it lose its meaning. He instructed me to, “Get on the fucking ground!” He told the employee of the store to, “Put the fucking money in the fucking bag!” Every few seconds he would spread the blinds with his thumb and index finger and just say, “Fuck!” By this point the other three customers were huddled like school children under their desks after the treat of a nuclear blast. Only I stared onward. I began to wonder who prepared all of the donuts. Where was he, I only use the word “he” because it seems like a job for a man. The hunger in my stomach was staring to overcome me. It had been several hours since my last meal and the smell of tiger tails and bear claws was starting to make its way through my nostrils. The chime of a rusty bell above the entrance rang out.

The last time it had done so a man with a gun came through the door. Before the gunman could bark a command the potential Jimmy’s Donut Shack patron, she quickly exited the store. The blood on my leg was beginning to get cold. As quick as he came the man left the store, but not before uttering one last phrase containing that now meaningless four-letter word. After a brief silence the loony toons theme startled us all. It continued to mock the situation that had just occurred. I then noticed a small square of light glowing through the dead man’s blood soaked pocket. He wore the same pants as I and, thanks to the pool of blood; they were now a darker shade of brown then the day he purchased them.

I reached into his pocket. The caller ID only displayed a random combination of numbers. I cleared my mucus filled throat and greeted the caller. A stern voice shook the tiny speaker forcing me to pull the receiver away from my ear. The person on the other end did not repeat the salutation or even offer the common verbal fore play found in most normal phone calls. With a single breath he exclaimed 15 words, “Chester this is the third time you have been late this month! You are fired!” The call was disconnected on the other side.

This dead man was now unemployed like 117,790 other Minnesota residents. I wondered if his life insurance was now void. Just then the donut cook exited the small unisex bathroom at the back of the restaurant. He had a very puzzled look on his face. I closed Chester’s cell phone, placed it on his chest, stood up, and exited the store. I knew this was the beginning of a terrible week.