Jan, 11th (Wednesday)

This was my third week of unemployment. Up until then I had worked as a cook at a high-end restaurant but was unceremoniously laid off following a freak gas explosion. On the upside the place was insured up both nostrils and the owners decided to share the wealth in the severance package.

I used some of that money to take the bus into the city and buy some papers, all with classifieds, to look for a new job. Why didn't I go to a job site? Good question. This was before I got my first computer. Or at least one with internet access. Do people still use the term "word processor"?

Most of the jobs listed were either not remotely related to my skill set or required too much experience. In fact, the only job I was even remotely qualified for was one I was over qualified for. Apparently, a service station is looking for a new cashier. Not mentioning what had happened to the last cashier but I decided not to let it bother me.

The interview was conducted in an "office" (that more closely resembled a large supply closet with a desk). The manager seemed impressed, if a little befuddled as to why I would apply for a job I was so overqualified for. I told him that while pride was, at times, a very noble thing, It did a very poor job of paying the bills. He nodded and made a noise of acknowledgment before tossing me a uniform shirt, with name tag attached. Picking up on my look of gobsmacked befuddlement, he explained that the pervious employee had also been named Steven. I decided not to let that bother me either.

I got the afternoon shift, from 1:00 to 6:00 p.m. My first shift started in ten minutes. Lovely. Better to rip it off all at once I have said. The sting only lasts a while.

It was a fairly slow day. This was somewhat

surprising as the store was very near at least three high schools. I had expected huge throngs of proto-adults gabbing their after school sugar rush. But there was no one. Literally. I spent the first four hours of my first shift basking in the smell of grease and cleaning fluid and finishing a book of crosswords. Here's to the small blessings, I guess.

I was leaning on the counter, puzzling over an eighteen letter-word for "transfer of material existence" (turns out it was "transubstantiation"), when I heard the electric bell on the door chime. My head snapped up like a Pez dispenser. The customer, a smallish boy in his late teens came in, going straight for the candy. He came up, putting a bag of licorice down on the counter. There was a picture of koalas on his shirt. While I was distracted by the cute little marsupials, I heard another unmistakable sound. The one of the hammer being pulled back on a revolver. After that, things got a bit hazy.

The bullet had grazed my ear, imbedding itself in the wall behind me. This was, apparently, the first time this had happened in the course of some twenty-six robberies conducted by "Koala Boy" as he was known. And because the bullet had wound up, more or less, complete in a wall, it was much easier to get finger-print and ballistics samples. Both of which made it a good deal easier to trace it back to the weapon from which it was fired. A Smith & Wesson .38 snub-nose which the criminal in question had, for reasons unknown, registered in his own name. He was arrested today. I felt a bit odd taking the reward.