COLLEGIAN TIMES
22
2021 SPRING-SUMMER
IN YOUR FACE:
GUN CULTURE RUSHES INTO FOCUS BY JOHN JOHNS PHOTO COURTESY OF UNSPLASH.COM
O
n the night of my 18th birthday, I discovered that my life and my “enemy’s” life were worth more than the minimum wage of $1.35 or a case of beer. I had just graduated from high school and was working graveyard shift in my brother-in-law’s convenience store in San Jose, CA. Let it be noted here, the term “graveyard shift” is not an exaggeration. I was asleep around 3 p.m. when the phone rang. I don’t remember much, except my brother-inlaw saying, “Oh, by the way, the Quick Stop on El Camino Real was robbed last night. It’s the fifth robbery this week by the same guy, so be on the alert.” Oh, great. What am I supposed to do? Get a grenade launcher? Somewhat troubled, I went back to sleep. At 11 p.m., I reported to work. I wore my sky-blue polyester uniform jacket with company logo — sharp, really sharp. OK, my brother-in-law, like your brother-in-law has bad taste — really bad taste, even though he thought it was chic. He also liked Muzak and Ripple. After he visited Vegas, he was confused
about Liberace. It was a hot Friday night in August. It was also payday. The store was busier than normal because dozens of fun-loving guys needed to slacken their thirst with copious amounts of suds. This night brought a rush of customers trying to beat the clock by 2 a.m., when alcohol sales ended Business was almost too much for me to handle until about 1 a.m., when strangely the store emptied out and was suddenly quiet. With no customers to snoop, I dropped all but $50 into the safe. There was always a weird feeling of isolation and loneliness on the graveyard shift when midnight turned into early morning. The store was brightly lit inside, but the parking lot outside could have passed for the dark side of the moon. ‘This Guy is Going to Rob Me’ At about 1:30 a.m., the peace and quiet was broken when a small man opened the door and walked in. He looked like hell. I thought to myself, ‘This guy is going to rob me.’ And then, I forgot the thought as I rang up his “purchase.” He wore a dirty, tattered T-shirt and faded, holey blue jeans, with cowboy boots that looked like they originated on skid row. He weighed about
