Most people say I'm crazy for doing this work, but it's what I'm experienced at, and I'm damn good. This store, a Stop 'n Grab just off the interstate, is sort of far from the city, so we're the only business on the exit. Still, we have our regular customers, and that helps a lot. Overnight on a Saturday, it's quiet enough to think, busy enough not to have to. Just the way I like it.

Most cashiers call this the killer shift. Too lonely, too scary, they say, especially for a pretty young lady like me. Only I'm not that young anymore, and nobody can say I'm pretty and mean it, so this is perfect for me. It keeps my days free to decide where I'm traveling next because I'm one widow woman who won't get stuck in any one place. Wherever I go, store managers jump at the chance to hire me when I tell them I've been cashiering for ten years. They don't even bother to check references since I can talk the lingo. Being an experienced graveyard shifter, I'm worth my weight in soda and chips to any convenience store.

Customer traffic's been steady tonight. It usually is on a Saturday. About eleven, when I start work, the high-schoolers are still coming, trying to score beer with fake IDs and settling for soda when they see they aren't getting anywhere with me. Around midnight, the college kids begin to show up, running in for a junk food fix and whatever brew is on special.

Other people come and go, too. Second shifters pick up smokes on their way home. Truckers stop, needing a caffeine jolt. Harried parents pick up cough drops and chewable aspirin for sick kids, bitching that it's overpriced, but paying just the same since we're the only place open. Guessing what a person will buy when he walks in is a game for me, a way to kill time. I'm usually right. I'm not psychic, just experienced.

Around three, the predictable customers stop coming. Until the morning regulars show up for coffee and early treats, a cashier learns the true meaning of 'graveyard shift' because it gets pretty dead in the store. This is when the strange ones start showing up, the loners and the losers, when the only comforting company a cashier has is the image on the security monitor, and that screen's as grainy as the 'authentic alien abduction' photos on the cover of the Weekly World News at the check out. It's now, in the dead of the night, that the fear sets in and makes this the killer shift.

A guy comes in around three-thirty, wearing a black jacket with a logo from some heavy metal band. He wanders around for a bit, looking at stuff, but doesn't pick anything out. When he comes toward the counter empty-handed, familiar, unwelcome jitters twist through me. I'm no stranger to holdups, and this guy's showing the signs. I've learned to trust my instincts.
Before the guy reaches the counter, a security guard from the factory in town shows up. He's a regular Saturday customer and a talker, a real motor mouth. I listen to him, but never take my eyes off Heavy Metal lurking behind him. Before Security finishes telling me the latest hassle with his boss, Heavy Metal gets discouraged and takes off.

I tell Security what almost happened. His look says it all-Holy shit. He gives me his money, nukes his sandwich, and warns me to be careful. He thinks I should call the cops, but I won't. Heavy Metal left and won't be back. That's been my experience with his kind.

Sometimes experience is wrong, I remind myself when Heavy Metal pulls into the parking lot around four. When he passes by me, he doesn't smell like he's been drinking or smoking grass to build up his nerve. Good thing. Sober and straight don't usually spell trouble. When they're stoned, you never know what'll happen.

The guy picks up a pack of gum from the display. When I go to ring him up, his hand shifts toward his jacket. I try to force down my fear, but the jitters demand life.

Your best chance to survive is if you cooperate with the robber, the convenience store owners always say. I've been at this long enough to know better. I slide my hand under the counter, carefully curling my fingers around the little automatic, my special surprise for the likes of this guy. His hand inches closer to the opening of his jacket, and my grip gets tighter on my gun.

Then he starts to talk. Asks for directions. And all that's hiding inside his jacket is a map. I work the register one-handed, the other frozen beneath the counter, and get him on his way. Once he's gone, I start to shake. Violent, uncontrollable shivers.

It's not ten years ago. It's not ten years ago.

Heavy Metal's not the robbing, murderous scum who ended my husband's life, the only man who ever could call me pretty and mean it. It's today, and my instincts were wrong, and I can't stop shaking.
I pour myself a cup of hours-old decaf. Maybe it's time to switch to days, find out if I can sleep at night again. If I can't, I'm sure I'll be allowed to go back to overnights. Back to the killer shift.

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