The Bullet Case and The Empty Space

I wrote this short piece the night after being held up. It's not especially descriptive or detailed; it is more of a musing and reflection writing than anything else.

The empty bullet casing lie at my feet, in direct contradiction of the reality I had firmly constructed for myself and had enjoyed existing in until not more than thirty minutes ago.  I was angry at it; stupefied by it and the impertinence it possessed to lay there, gleaming up at me in the greasy neon light of the fast-food Italian restaurant.  It was as though if I leaned over, touched it's cooled surface, my world would violently rip in two and I was unsure as to which one was real and which one wasn't.  I had begun to shiver violently some time ago, but hadn't necessarily noticed at the time.  Apparently no one else could feel this unexpected chill.  Policemen stood about the place, eyeing it with vague interest, emitting routine empathy to the witnesses in a slow and steady pace.  Seth loomed here and there, sporadically, fidgety and numb from the beers he had before he picked me up.  The teens employed in the kitchen were bustling around cleaning, re-arranging the chairs and tables that had been slid, tossed, shoved, during the commotion.  The old man that had been sweeping when the gunmen arrived pushed that which had been knocked aside when two customers threw themselves to the floor after the men had fled.
 I wondered later why I seemed to be the only one affected.  It was strange.  When Seth dropped me off at my friend's mother's house he was still asking if I would prefer to go out and get a beer.  A beer!  Like what we had just witnessed had been on the television; like the gun the man by the door held had not just been pointed at Seth's head.  I hated him and the buzz he had going and was jealous of him at the same time.  Perhaps it had all seemed like a really good crime show for him, detached and unalert as he was.  When he had first laid eyes on the man in the door, he just stared, chuckled and asked aloud, "what the f**k?"  I was terrified.  I thought he was just going to keep giggling.  Then I could see in his lowered eyes thoughts of heroism, and I couldn't breathe.  I could practically see his blood splattered and mixed with the marinara sauce on the table.

     The register had $38 in it.  That's all.  Sgt. Peffer's isn't exactly what you would call fine dining.  It's a hole in the wall.  Robbing a gas station would be more profitable than this place.  I was sitting on the right side of the front door, not three feet away.  With his gun in my face, I glared at the floor.  I was furious with these boys, for they were not men.  I hadn't even graduated college yet.  I had not joined the Peace Corps.  I hadn't made any mark on the world.  There were so many feelings I hadn't felt yet, so many experiences I had every plan of experiencing.  Who were they to take that away?  What right did they have?  I hadn't called my mom back.  I hadn't thanked my grandfather for always being there for me.  I hadn't thanked my grandmother for giving me music.  I hadn't walked with my dad out at our farm.  There were a million thank you's I needed to say, a million things to apologize for, and there my life was, dangling in front of my face and I could do nothing to control what would happen to it.  Screams ricocheted in my head. And I pitied them, these boys with guns.  The ones who would deign to take so many fates into their gloved hands.  My heart melted and I kept thinking through my screaming, "what can I do for you?  Let me give you money, if you need it that badly."  I could see the fear in their eyes, or was that my fear reflecting back to me?  And I kept wondering what brought them to this desperation.  I wanted to help the man screaming at the cashier to open the register.  I wanted to help him.

     When the cop was interviewing me, I could barely hear him.  The gunshot was still ringing in my ear, and I couldn't take my eyes off of the soda that was spilling on the floor.  He had shot the bottom part of the counter.  The bullet went straight through the wood paneling, and then a Dr. Pibb sack.  My eyes blurred over and from across the restaurant, it looked like blood.  The cop walked away and the man who had been screamed at--shot at--and who had kept calm the entire time came up with a gift certificate that he handed to me and walked away.  It read:  To Guardian Angels, From the Peffer's Team, Dinner for Two.  I stared at this for a long time, while Seth continued to pace and try to make sense of this scene.  My mind was having trouble holding this man and the gunmen in my thoughts at once.  When faced with such a juxtaposition, I could only think, which one is real?  The cashier or the gunman?  The hate or the pity?  The bullet case on the floor or the undisturbed place that had been there moments ago?

     Later, in front of a fireplace, one beer in my belly and another going down with a blanket over my shoulders, I became thankful.  Yes, thankful for still being alive, for having survived it, but also for it happening.  By this point my mind had become accustomed to holding contradictions to be true.  I was still shaking, but I focused on it.  I was scared shitless and paying attention to it.  I almost hated the numb feeling the beer gave me.  It was taking away this feeling that I treasured, that perhaps I had not noticed before: alive.  I felt alive.

Reviews

[Antonio Valentino]

Dear Heather, that was one of the finest stories I've ever read, I'm glad I did. It gave me a frozen snapshot of life, through your eyes. A view I really enjoyed. A perspective of passion and compassion that fell sweet on my eyes.

You're a very special person. I hope you continue to share with us more of, who you are. One thing I know, is that we'd be all the better for knowing you.

Your Friend,
Antonio