22

Chapter 22

3:54 p.m.

A voice broke the silence and stopped them cold! "You no more move no more, you! No! Standing right there, too! You better!!" Ahmad stood squarely in the doorway of his store, looking quite serious and protective. So protective that he was holding the classic weapon of the convenience store worker variety--a sawed-off double-barreled shot gun. Now, I'd know Ahmad for years now, ever since I moved here from Chatham, Massachusetts in '81, but I don't care if it was my Godly-sweet mother behind the business end of that firearm, I was not feeling comfortable and friendly. But, at the same time, I was getting tired of talking people down from whatever narrow ledge they were teetering today.  This annoyance barely overwhelmed my better judgment and, in a flash of ill-advisement and largely to my own surprise, I lurched forward and grabbed for the barrel of the gun, ripping it from the shocked little Indian convenience store manager.
"Oh, for crying out loud to the man in the moon, Amhad! What are you doin'?!"
"It is for you my store is lost most of money for today!  I'm tired of it! Tired! Give back my firing pistol!" He clenched his fists and jumped up and down like a small child might do when deprived of her potato peeler or tube of super glue.
"No! No more violence! No more running around, no more tying people up and no more tunnels, police, or loud noises!  We're bringing this to a conclusion right NOW!" I cried. At which point, in another flash of livid and ill-advised action, I flung the gun decidedly to the ground. This was the immediate cause of the explosion that resulted in the immediate release of the high velocity pellets found in any garden-variety shotgun shell.
A scream. A thump. Silence. No one moved. The acrid smell of freshly-discharged gun powder wafted through the air. I looked around. To my surprise, Mrs. Desdemona Franklin was lying face down on the ground, having pulled over a display of Raisinettes onto her head.
"You've GOT to be kidding!" This was too much. I bent down to ascertain the damage. "Hey, lady. Lady!"  No response. Nothing. I checked her pulse. Ahh, something. It was fairly strong. Racing, actually. I ventured to shake her vigorously. A moan and a whimper. She came to and rolled over, revealing a minor gunshot wound to the right shoulder. She had passed out, but not expired. This was a turn for the better. Or not.
"What are you doing, you scant of a man!?  Don't touch me!  Get away!!" She rose, a raging phoenix, and ran for the door. I was caught completely off-guard.
"Nope, nope, come back here!" I dove for her and caught the left heel of her shoe, sending her sprawling to the tiled floor and squealing to a stop. I slid through a smear of red as a desperate crawling race ensued and, ultimately, the wide-eyed strumpet beat me by an inch through the front door, which gave me quite a knock on the forehead as I fell to the concrete. I lay half in, half out the door, temporarily stunned by the bellows of the afternoon sun. Desdemona Franklin was high-tailing it across the parking lot, soon to be long-gone.
Through the sweltering heat waves, I scanned the lot for any residual signs of official police business. There was none. I breathed a sigh of relief and collapsed, my body bisected by the plate glass front door of the Stop 'N' Shop. The glob of oil-smeared pink chewing gum stuck to the concrete right under my nose was almost liquefied in the afternoon heat.