In Laymon's Terms

Jon saw a line of light sweep across the wall as the door opened and closed, heard the women start a debate. They spoke in intense little whispers.

Jon could not hear much: their words were lost beneath the refrigerator equipment’s constant low drone. He detected no tones of comfort—their sentences were focused verbal exchange, aimed at a specific goal, trying to connect with something almost tangible: survival.

Jon listened to them whisper back and forth, heard the frustration mounting between them as their voices rose. They were like synapses trying to connect in a shattered mind, endlessly firing in the wrong direction, progressing only into further insanity. If they kept it up, they’d get themselves killed. And him too.

He stepped from behind the row of boxes and said, “Shh—I’ve called the cops.”

Both women turned and stared at him with blank expressions. They sat on the floor, knee to knee as they faced each other. The woman in the skirt had streams of mascara down her face, her white stockings soaked in blood and spilled gin. The cashier had one eye swollen shut, a dribble of blood from her left nostril from when the bastard hit her.

“Holy SHIT!”

“Shh! Keep it down—they don’t know he’s here,” said the cashier. “Do they?”

“No.”

“How long have you been here?”

“The whole time. I hid in here right after the shooting started. Called the cops from my cell phone.”

“The cops are outside.”

“I know.”

“Why aren’t they coming in?”

“I don’t know,” Jon said.

“I do,” said the cashier. “This is now a hostage situation. They’re afraid they’d get us killed if they were to barge in here.”

“They’re probably right,” Jon said.

“That’s what I was trying to explain to her,” the cashier said.

“Those fuckers killed my boyfriend.”

“Shit,” Jon said. “Sorry.”

“I’d like to rip their nuts off.”

“Guess you won’t be going Patty Hearst on us, then?”

“Who?”

“Nevermind.”

“I don’t suppose you have a gun or anything, do you?”

“Not on me. You kidding? You know what you have to go through to carry legally in New York State?”

“It was a thought,” said the cashier.

“Yeah, well, this is the last time I leave the house without it, I’m here to tell you.”

“You have one at home?”

“Yeah. SIG P-220. Lot of good it does us here.”

“My boyfriend has a Ruger .22 out in the car.”

“Lot of good that does us here,” said the cashier.

“I don’t know how to use it. That’s what he was going for when...” She started to choke up.

The cashier reached out and hugged her. “It’s okay,” she said.

“No it’s not!”

“Listen,” Jon said. “I’m sorry Terry got shot—but you’ve gotta hold it together. Really. Because if these guys could get away with it, they’d—” The door to the cooler banged open.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

One of the robbers entered the cooler, a pistol in one hand, a roll of duct tape in the other. He looked at Jon—hate-blue eyes locked on him from behind the ski mask. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I...I’m—”

The robber took a step forward. “How the fuck did you get in here?”

“I’ve been—”

Another step. “Motherfucker!” The robber raised his gun.

Jon leaped behind the boxes as the shots rang out. Cold wine cascaded down upon him, drenching his face. The women screamed. The other robber came rushing in, gun at the ready. “What the fuck?”

“Another fucking guy in here!”

“Are you crazy? Fuckin’ Police outside! Trying to get us killed, dumbfuck?”

With the door open, Jon could hear the cops on a megaphone: “What was that? Is everyone all right? We heard shots. I’m telling you guys, if we don’t see those hostages right now, we’re coming in.”

“Tape him up with the rest. Bring ’em all out here. Fuck. Another goddamned hostage. Shit. This fucking sucks. Goddamnit! I’ma go talk to these pigs. Get ’em ready.”

The robber ripped off a strip of tape and put it over Jon’s mouth. The tape blocked part of his nose, too. It was difficult to breathe, and that air he did suck in tasted like wine and adhesive. Then, the robber wrapped a length of tape around his wrists, locking them behind his back. He covered the women’s mouths next, then led them out of the cooler, single file. Jon at the lead, Terry’s girlfriend in the back. The women’s hands were not bound, he learned, when the cashier gave his hand a squeeze as they were marched to the front of the liquor store.

The light hurt his eyes; he had become accustomed to the darkness of the cooler, but was thankful for the relative warmth. Though he went into the cooler by choice, now, soaked with wine and the sweat of fear, he was glad to be out of it—it was far too much like a cell. He heard the other robber speaking to the police.

“Hey, yo...Easy, man. Nobody’s hurt. Just saw a spider, is all. My partner hates bugs.”

“Very funny. Where are the hostages? I’m going to count to five.”

“Easy, easy. We’s bringing ’em out now.”

“One.”

“Hurry the fuck up, willya?” said the robber by the door to his partner.

“Two.”

“I’m coming!”

“Three.”