This
evening we went to make Christmas deliveries and see the light display in
Spanish Fork. I was reminded of making
some deliveries on Christmas Eve 1993. I
had recently been hired at Camelot Music in the St. Clair Square mall in Fairview
Heights, Illinois.
Before that
I had worked at KFC in Belleville with a rough but decent crew on the night
shift. Jon and Steve worked next door at
Pizza Hut. Most of our parties were
partially catered by Pepsi, Co, who owned both companies. I still had friends who slaved for the
Colonel, and I decided to drop off some cards and goodies on my way home from
my new employment. I also figured to
grab a free bite because I think the manager Ana had a thing for me, and
whenever I passed by, I’d get a box of wings or some “Chicken Little”
sandwiches, or some potatoes and gravy, or a parfait on the house.
But I
digress. I arrived just before the doors
closed at six, and I hung out in the lobby with Ana, Stephanie, Becky, and one
of the two cook named Jason. We had a
good time catching up and were rather loud about it as the store was closed.
Suddenly,
the new girl (who had replaced me) runs in screaming bloody murder. Well, at least that’s the best cliché to
describe it. It was more like she had
won the sound like an ambulance siren contest.
Yes, it was that shrill, and that deafening.
Trying to
get her to calm down, I heard some shouting and crashing in the back of the
store. The back door slammed
loudly. A few seconds later, the other
manager (I forgot her name) raced into the dining room. She was shaking uncontrollably and tears
streamed down her face. She tried
speaking, but no sound came out; close to hyperventilating really. My first aid scout instincts kicked in. We sat her down, but she kept shaking, her
perma-bangs bouncing. Somebody shoved a
Wild Cherry Pepsi into her hands. She
threw it back and instantly calmed.
About this
time the other Jason came staggering in, bobbing and weaving. I turned and noticed that blood was coagulating
in his hair and had been dripping over his flour-crusted white apron and red
polo shirt.
We jumped
to our feet to steady him. Apparently,
he was out in the shed when somebody in a black ski mask attacked him. Jason, a born scrapper, said he managed to
get in one got shot to the bandit’s ribs, but then Jason got clubbed over the
head with the butt of a handgun and conked out.
Three hours
and police reports in triplicate later. We pieced together that after Jason was
beaten, the dude opened the back door, and held the gun to the (hysterical)
manager’s head and demanded the money. Everyone
else had been out front with me when all the action occurred except for the new
girl. Luckily for the store, most of the
money hadn’t been brought back to be counted yet. He only got away with a couple hundred
dollars. No shots were fired.
So even
though I never saw the action, I was a witness in the middle of a hold-up on Christmas Eve. My mom didn’t believe me when she asked why I
was late and hadn’t called.
Epilogue: Two days later, the new girl tipped off the police
that her step-brother was the gunman.
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