One evening, when I was working at a small health food store in Culver City, California, a guy and his friend walked up to my register to purchase an apple. Oddly, he didn’t place the fruit on the scale as most people would. He just held it in his hand, as if I was supposed to guess its weight. I informed him of his oversight and he awkwardly placed the apple on the scale. The total came to about thirty-five cents. He handed me a twenty and I turned to get his change. When I turned back, all I could see was the business end of a hand gun pointed at my face.
No, my life did not flash before my eyes. I immediately dropped my head and raised my hands. I was instructed to get down on the floor and not move. And I complied. One man came around and grabbed the drawer out of the register and accidently dropped it on my head. When he discovered how little was actually in the till, he frisked me for my wallet, which I eventually had to remove from my front pocket and hand to him. I never pleaded for my life. I only spoke when spoken to. And in less than ten minutes, they were out the door.
After it was over, I sat there on my checkout stand, sipping water from a tiny paper cup. My hands were trembling so much, it was hard to get the cup to my lips. The police arrived to fill out a report, but I gave them very little information. Not because I didn’t see anything. But because I feared retaliation. Those criminals had my drivers license. They knew where I lived. And I never wanted to see a firearm from that angle again. Staring Down The Barrel sucks.
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