There are three types of people who come into a convenience store this late at night.

The first type are the quickies.

They know what they want, where it’s at and, usually how much it costs. They will have the exact, or pretty close to the exact amount of money to cover their purchase. They are in and out like summer breeze. Gone before you can really register they were ever there.

The second type are the couch potatoes. The ones who fell asleep while binge watching some show on one streaming service or other. Not because they are really interested but because they want to be in on the conversation around the watercolor, or in the break room or whatever.

They have no life outside of work and home. They come in wearing pajama pants or shorts, tee shirt, usually stained with remnants of their last meal or meals, bare feet in slippers. Hair a tangled nest, eyes sunken rimmed with dark circles looking like they just crawled from an open grave.

Which may not be as far fetched as you might think.

They shuffle up and down the aisles, their slippered feet making a grainy sshish-shish sound as they have neither the strength nor inclination to pick up their feet. They don’t know what they want, only that hunger or some intangible craving has dragged them from their sofa, bed or basement into the florescent lighted night. Most times they will wander the aisles for thirty to forty five minutes selecting several items half heartedly before putting them all back in exchange for a bag of chips and a soda. Neither of which they truly want, but feel obligated to purchase, if only to validate their reason for coming out at all.

Then there’s this guy.

The desperate, the disparaged.

Dressed in a heavy wool coat, frayed knit hat, jeans and sneakers. All of which look like he’s been dragged down the street wearing.

More than once.

He’s sweating profusely, not because of the heat, the AC is working overtime. You could hang meat in here and it wouldn't spoil. His hands are shaking, not from the cold, eyes wide frantic.

“Empty the register!” he demands, his voice cracking like a kid going through puberty. His eyes are sunken into his skull, rimmed with dark circles, cheeks hollow.

I shrug indifferently, poked hard with my index finger, a little twist for good measure.

“Hey!” Crackhead yelped. “Are you crazy?!”

A gun was just shoved into my face, so I stuck my finger in the barrel. Am I crazy?

Probably.

Definitely.

“Pull it out!” He whined.

“Can’t. It’s stuck.”

“I’ll pull the trigger, man! Blow your finger right off!”

“The gun will probably explode in your face.”

This probably isn’t far from the truth. The gun has seen better days. The barrel is scarred and pitted, the grip wrapped in electrical tape.

“Yeah right!” he scoffs half -heartedly, eyes shifting from my face to the end of the gun barrel.

“Have you ever seen Bugs Bunny?” I ask with tired incredulity.

A flicker of worry. A faint childhood memory flashes like lightning.

“Shit!” he yelps.

He runs, bolting out the door faster than he came in. Leaving the gun dangling from my finger.

I extract my finger, toss the gun into a milk crate under the counter with a growing collection of others. Works every time.