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It was 9:30 in the evening when my stomach began to growl and complain of emptiness. There's a Subway Sandwich Shop on the corner of our street, and the cool nights here in Arizona make it an enjoyable ten minute stroll. I never walk fast, but my stride is smooth as yogurt without the fruit.
I asked my wife if she wanted me to bring something back, but Mary told me she was going to bed. Before leaving, I assured her that I was not sneaking out to rendezvous with the hairy woman living next door. My wife's indifference seemed mocking.
Our street has adequate lighting which allows me to spot snakes before they get too close. This is the time of year when the reptiles are out in large numbers. Last year I had a close encounter with a rattler, but that's a story for another day.
We live on the outer edge of Tucson, and there aren't many homes on our street. The area is continuing to develop, and more houses are going up every day. The three homes that share my street are dark and the night is still. People that live in the desert go to bed early. The green neon Subway sign at the corner beckons me like a lawyer to an accident.
The parking lot is empty as I step inside the sandwich shop, and it pleases me to realize that the lone customer is me. This means no waiting in line. The aromas of baked bread, fresh sliced meats, and bleach surround me. A frail young employee is sitting behind the counter reading a book. He has bright orange hair, and freckles splattered across his face and arms. He glances up from his reading, and seems to be mildly annoyed by my presence. I apologize for interrupting his busy evening. The large plastic tag on his shirt reveals that his name is Randy.
I'm right in the middle of explaining to Randy what type of roll I want for my turkey sub when a man brandishing a shotgun bursts through the door behind me. This guy must really be hungry. I press myself against the counter to avoid the oncoming gunman while inquiring of Randy if the basil rolls are fresh.
The gentleman waves the shotgun in the general direction of Randy and demands money. Didn't this guy see the ATM machine over in the corner?
The shotgun wielder has long greasy hair spilling out beneath a baseball cap. He is unshaven, and it looks like the poor guy has had a rough week. My proximity to the man allows my nostrils to be assailed by his pungent body odor. It reminds me of the time I smelled my cat's paw.
Randy is starting to sweat profusely, and he's shaking like a televangelist asking for money. As perspiration trickles down the side of his face, I remind him not to get that shit in my sub.
The robber swings the shotgun in my direction as if noticing me for the first time. It can be irritating when nobody pays attention to you. Having the business end of the weapon pointed in my direction makes me glad that I pissed before leaving the house. I am not a hero, but I am hungry.
Randy has emptied the register, and is attempting to hand the cash to the distracted thief. People have told me that my mind is warped, but I don't believe them. With the robber facing me, I suddenly realize that he looks just like the guy who delivered my Chinese food last Friday. I thank him for the extra soy sauce.
In response to my gratitude the gunman smashes me in the stomach with the butt of the shotgun causing my breath to take leave of my body. I'm on my hands and knees doing a close inspection of the floor. The tile doesn't seem particularly clean, and I might need to reconsider my choice of eateries. Spittle drips from my open mouth onto the floor as I attempt in vain to suck in some air. I am thankful that my sphincter muscles are in good shape.
During my extensive examination of the tile the robber has made his escape. Randy is calling 911 and he shouts over the counter to inquire about my condition. His concern for my welfare is touching, but I'm disappointed that he doesn't ask if I want bacon on my sub.
I'm breathing normally by the time the police arrive, but my stomach hurts. The next hour is spent giving statements, declining medical treatment, and devouring my long awaited sub. My buddy Randy gave me the sandwich for free, but the turkey was dry.
The police gave me a ride back to the house, and it was nice not to be in cuffs this time. Mary was sleeping soundly as I slipped into bed.
The next two hours were spent trying to figure out how I was going to explain to Mary about the mark on my stomach that looks like a horse hickey.
Tomorrow should be an interesting day.
Alan Rogers lives in Tucson with his wife of 29 years Mary. They enjoy hiking in the desert and searching for gold. After working as a mattress maker, yogurt cook and knitting machine operator, Alan has spent the last 22 years in the behavioral health field. Working the last 12 years in a psychiatric facility inspired Alan to write his first novel.
Lyam's Journal ISBN 0-7414-4505-0 was published 2/01/08 and is available at http://bbotw.com where you can read an excerpt from the novel. Learn more about Alan and sample his writings at http://www.authornation.com/Lyam
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