It was just the type of night you would expect for something like this to happen.
Sara left the house at 6:45, waving off her mother's never-ending admonishment to be careful. What does she think I'm going to do - stand in front of the store and ask someone to take all the money and shoot me please?
"This is the last time you're working the late shift." She said as Sarah shut the door behind her.
"Whatever" Sarah whispered under her breath. Why do mothers always think the worst is going to happen? It should be illegal for mothers to watch the news or read newspapers. It makes them way too neurotic.
Business was slow, but that was expected. Rain poured down in sheets rather than drops. Thunder boomed, causing the glass in the storefront to vibrate. Lightning lit up the sky as brightly as if it were noon on a clear day, and the wind rolled debris across the parking lot as the storm raged on hour after hour.
Growing up in the Midwest, Sarah was used to spring storms. At eighteen, she'd come to enjoy them rather than fear them the way some of her friends did. She actually looked forward to stormy nights when she and her dad would spend hours, safely, contentedly listening, in their screened-in porch, to winter's anger as summer fought to come into town, unpack her bags and stay awhile.
It was just before midnight when the young black man walked through the doors. Sarah's pulse immediately quickened. He wore his jeans low, very low, and a large black t-shirt with a ball cap turned backwards. He kept his head down. The store closed in fifteen minutes, and she was mopping in preparation. She was out on the floor, not behind the counter where the emergency call button was within easy reach. He looked obviously out of place in this neighborhood.
He meandered up and down the aisles as if it were perfectly normal to browse the local Seven-Eleven. Sarah cautiously put her mop and bucket in the alcove by the restrooms and made her way to stand behind the counter. Before she could reach the call button, two white men walked through the door. Relief washed over Sarah. She smiled at them and said, "It's an awful night to be out. How can I help you?" The men smiled back and walked up to the counter, hands casually resting in the pockets of their wet overcoats. When they reached Sarah, they each pulled out a handgun and pointed it straight at Sarah's head. Sarah's hands automatically flew up in a gesture of surrender.
"I'm so glad you asked young lady. We'd love for you to hand over everything you've got in your drawer there." The man on the right said, using his gun to point to the cash register, smiling all the while.
Sarah kept her eyes on the men in front of her as she slowly reached down to open the cash register. Her hands shook. The pounding of her heart sounded louder to her than the storm outside. Just then she saw a flicker of movement at the back of the store, but before she could open the drawer, the man she'd been so worried about before jumped out from behind a display of Sierra Mist with a twelve-pack of Bud Lite held over his head. He swung at the thief closest to him and hit his head with a crack. The thief went down. In his surprise, the second robber got off a shot as he turned just in time to see his partner collapse. The unexpected hero was fast. He kicked the gun out of the second thief's hand. The thief punched him in the gut, but he came back with solid whack straight down on his head. He landed in a heap.
Making his way behind the counter, he found her on the hard tile floor. She was barely breathing and lying in a pool of blood. The stray bullet had hit an artery. Phone lines were down, cell phone reception was negligible. He tried 911, but the call didn't go through. He could run house to house looking for a cell phone with reception, but it was midnight. Who in this neighborhood would open their door to a young black man, dressed ghetto no less, at that hour? He knew better than to even try.
Moving faster than he thought possible, the young man pulled his car up on to the curb in front of the Seven-Eleven and opened the back door. He ran inside and gently picked up Sarah's near lifeless body. With his back, he pushed open the store's glass door and turned to carefully lay her across his back seat. She groaned.
"It's okay, Lady. I'm takin' ya to the hospital. You gonna make it. Jes lay still."
Sarah did indeed make it. Thanks to this unexpected hero.
Sara left the house at 6:45, waving off her mother's never-ending admonishment to be careful. What does she think I'm going to do - stand in front of the store and ask someone to take all the money and shoot me please?
"This is the last time you're working the late shift." She said as Sarah shut the door behind her.
"Whatever" Sarah whispered under her breath. Why do mothers always think the worst is going to happen? It should be illegal for mothers to watch the news or read newspapers. It makes them way too neurotic.
Business was slow, but that was expected. Rain poured down in sheets rather than drops. Thunder boomed, causing the glass in the storefront to vibrate. Lightning lit up the sky as brightly as if it were noon on a clear day, and the wind rolled debris across the parking lot as the storm raged on hour after hour.
Growing up in the Midwest, Sarah was used to spring storms. At eighteen, she'd come to enjoy them rather than fear them the way some of her friends did. She actually looked forward to stormy nights when she and her dad would spend hours, safely, contentedly listening, in their screened-in porch, to winter's anger as summer fought to come into town, unpack her bags and stay awhile.
It was just before midnight when the young black man walked through the doors. Sarah's pulse immediately quickened. He wore his jeans low, very low, and a large black t-shirt with a ball cap turned backwards. He kept his head down. The store closed in fifteen minutes, and she was mopping in preparation. She was out on the floor, not behind the counter where the emergency call button was within easy reach. He looked obviously out of place in this neighborhood.
He meandered up and down the aisles as if it were perfectly normal to browse the local Seven-Eleven. Sarah cautiously put her mop and bucket in the alcove by the restrooms and made her way to stand behind the counter. Before she could reach the call button, two white men walked through the door. Relief washed over Sarah. She smiled at them and said, "It's an awful night to be out. How can I help you?" The men smiled back and walked up to the counter, hands casually resting in the pockets of their wet overcoats. When they reached Sarah, they each pulled out a handgun and pointed it straight at Sarah's head. Sarah's hands automatically flew up in a gesture of surrender.
"I'm so glad you asked young lady. We'd love for you to hand over everything you've got in your drawer there." The man on the right said, using his gun to point to the cash register, smiling all the while.
Sarah kept her eyes on the men in front of her as she slowly reached down to open the cash register. Her hands shook. The pounding of her heart sounded louder to her than the storm outside. Just then she saw a flicker of movement at the back of the store, but before she could open the drawer, the man she'd been so worried about before jumped out from behind a display of Sierra Mist with a twelve-pack of Bud Lite held over his head. He swung at the thief closest to him and hit his head with a crack. The thief went down. In his surprise, the second robber got off a shot as he turned just in time to see his partner collapse. The unexpected hero was fast. He kicked the gun out of the second thief's hand. The thief punched him in the gut, but he came back with solid whack straight down on his head. He landed in a heap.
Making his way behind the counter, he found her on the hard tile floor. She was barely breathing and lying in a pool of blood. The stray bullet had hit an artery. Phone lines were down, cell phone reception was negligible. He tried 911, but the call didn't go through. He could run house to house looking for a cell phone with reception, but it was midnight. Who in this neighborhood would open their door to a young black man, dressed ghetto no less, at that hour? He knew better than to even try.
Moving faster than he thought possible, the young man pulled his car up on to the curb in front of the Seven-Eleven and opened the back door. He ran inside and gently picked up Sarah's near lifeless body. With his back, he pushed open the store's glass door and turned to carefully lay her across his back seat. She groaned.
"It's okay, Lady. I'm takin' ya to the hospital. You gonna make it. Jes lay still."
Sarah did indeed make it. Thanks to this unexpected hero.
Lori, is this a true story?
ReplyDeleteHappy Easter!
Tom F.
Hi Tom!
ReplyDeleteNo, it's not a true story - at least not as far as I know. Everyone knows about the parable of "The Good Samaritan," but I wanted to write a modern day "Good Samaritan" story. One that hit a little closer to home. So I used my own prejudice and wrote this story around it.