An hour left before closing time. Although he was already comtemplating opening up shop the next morning. Mr. Robinson had long accepted this mundane, perpetual routine for as far back as he could remember. But over the years, especially after the passing of his beloved Martha, he had learned to embrace it. This home away from home. The most loyal customers being the facilitators of most of his sparse essential needs as of now.
Matters once considered as trivialities had evolved importance. Such as the numerous friendly, but brief, chats with locals about living life in the slum neighbourhood, their own personal family dramas and the daily woes that accompanied it. He concluded this was a given though. People’s lives were all copies of a copy, give or take a little tweaking here and there. We all waded knee deep in the cesspool of everyday existence and thrived on making our problems bigger than they actually were. Our self-indulgence on egotism and status in this world always seemed the proprietary factor, he concluded. Nobody actually cared enough to make a difference to the state of decay their insignificant town was amassing at an exponential rate. Gun crime, looting, drugs, rape, the list was endless. But as negligible as we all were, it was still in everybody's power and best interest to make that change if they so wished, he thought. And today would be his turn to shine.
The darkness outside produced a thick fog of blackness, only intensified by the bright glare of the ceiling lights overhead. It was almost impossible to see anything out of the tall, rectangular glass-panelled shop front door. Yet, he could see everything. He enjoyed the concealed elation of being one step ahead of the game. He knew everything he needed to and then some.
Resting one brown-sleeved arm upon the wooden counter and perusing the main headlines of today’s evening newspaper, he exhibited a faint smile. The top story of the day showed a menacing young thug being apprehended by a couple of bulky uniformed law enforcement officers. The muscled perp was spread face down on the hood of the squad car while he was held in place and frisked. If only they could always be on time in your hour of need, he wondered. It had been several minutes since he pushed the small grey “panic” button but yet still no sign of activity anywhere. Not a sound except for the blood rushing through his aural capillaries. Though age had helped him grow accustomed to that strange throb.
He glanced up at the top left corner of his shop floor space before looking back down at the paper. A flat screen display relayed images captured from a hidden CCTV camera on the outside. An upgraded model from the last one a few months back. One of the only times he could recall when something breaking actually led to an improvement in his life. The main feature of this unit being the new *infra-red night vision” mode, switchable via a timed internal clock. Every evening from 8pm, without fail, the screen would refresh once giving off a white flash. Even though the picture appeared to remain the same, it’s clarity had been enhanced tenfold. And each passing minute would lead up to a moment validating all the expense and upheaval he had struggled through to install his new security blanket. Thanks for the criminal plotting of two unknown hooligans.
He had spied them hiding behind the old, rundown truck opposite his store for a good thirty minutes. All the while concocting a retaliatory plan of his own. The bastards had no idea what they had coming, he thought. His subtle act of continuing to remain oblivious to his impending danger, gave a feeling of deep seated satisfaction and pride. All he had to do was either wait for the cops to arrive or exercise his God-given right to defending himself. The chances of them being armed were high, by his reckoning. So it only seemed reasonable he must be prepared for the worst. His free wrist rested behind the wooden top, on a lowered jutting narrow compartment affixed to the side. In his hand, an M&P 45 Shield 9mm Smith and Weston. A light firearm which packed a mighty punched given it’s weight and compact size. He did not intend to use it, but the dark side of him wished he could. If anything, he would be doing the community a great service. Taking matters into his own hands instead of leaving him to the mercies of their trusted but tardy law enforcement.
Another fleeting glimpse up at the monitor and they were gone. The only observable activity being a chorus of flies hovering around an isolated street lamp near the highway. His grip tightened upon the gun and he put his head down, though at a slight tilt to one side. His peripheral vision would have to be as good an improvisation as any if he wanted to maintain the secret charade. It was possible to just about make out the fine edges of the doorway to his far right. A bead of sweat trailed down his temple as he waited for the inevitable. The next instant, some movement outside. A round, dulled object crept into view. One of the hoodlum’s heads, no doubt. Mr. Robinson persisted with his indomitable performance, showing no sign of aroused awareness or suspicion. An Oscar was waiting for him in the wings, his name embossed in large gold lettering along it’s heavy base, he thought.
The head ducked back out of sight as he readied himself, bringing the gun up to his thigh. Only now had he noticed how fast his heartbeat raced, though simultaneously purging any unwanted thoughts from his mind. Focus was the first and foremost object. Time stood still for what seemed like minutes, however the incessant ticking of the clock next to him assured that was just an illusion.
