About ten minutes before the store’s set to open, Kelly, the girl who works at the counter for the convenience store, pulls me aside and says, “When the guy comes in to bring the donuts, make sure you’re careful about other cars in the parking lot.” She explains that there have been robberies. I consider what help it would be to look around at other cars in the parking lot. I couldn’t do much against another person, let alone a car. And I think, hey. If we’re really going to get robbed, being suspicious about it isn’t going to change much.

I play out the scenario in my head, and I realize that I think this is actually sort of exciting. A robbery! I’ll show them that I’m the perfect person to hold up. I’ll give them whatever they want, throw both registers at them before they even ask, I could probably break open the safe with some reckless, uncalculated banging. I consider that it might be a good gesture to reach into my pockets and pull out a few crumpled bills and some quarters, and hand those over, too. They’ll have so much sympathy for me—the kid who just wants to live. Then I realize I don’t have any cash on me, just a Starbucks gift card, which is two years old and probably empty. Fuck. I should probably hand it over anyway—at the very least, it will prove that I have no company loyalty, and thus deserve to live. And it’s the sentiment that counts.

Then after all is said and done, I’ll just go home. Dunkin’ Donuts will forgive me for giving away all the money, because you do what you have to do. I’ll probably stop working for a while—can you imagine the trauma of having a gun pointed at you? Toy with the idea of suing for emotional distress, but just sit back smugly knowing that I could.

But wait. A gun? Maybe I shouldn’t even take my chances showing them how cooperative I am, here’s my card, I’ll probably be working retail next summer also, come rob me any time. I should just run for it.

They won’t be expecting that. I picture them stumbling in with the donut guy, and before they have time to realize anything, I’ll grab my sweatshirt and sprint out the back door. I’m pretty fast. After fifteen minutes of sprinting in any direction, I’ll slow down, and request help from the people around me in the manner of someone who really needs it. Please—I’m gasping here, out of breath—help. I’ve just been involved in a holdup. Guns? Maybe. Maybe hostages. A few miles down the road. Bombs, possibly. Yeah. Yes, just a kid. Can I use the phone?

My dad will come pick me up, wherever I am, and I won’t have been away from home more than an hour. I’ll go back to bed, way too distressed to even leave the house for some period of time, let alone talk about it. On the car ride home, I’ll think, Hah! And where were the cops when we needed them? I bet all their palms are in all their faces; they can’t stand that they missed this opportunity, especially since we’re always giving them so much free coffee, presumably in appreciation of all their hard work and sacrifices.

But wait. If they’re good robbers, surely they’ll be anticipating my escape out the back. Great. Maybe I should hide. Hiding might work, but I’d be trapped if they found me. My coworker might give me away. I might be better off cooperating after all. Do a quick 911 call before they make it inside, and hang the phone up before anyone sees. Then I’d just have to talk with them for a few minutes before the cops came. But wait. What if they panic when the police get here, and just start shooting? That slims my chances of making it out of this alive. Okay. Back to running. But the guy outside. Maybe he won’t be paying attention. I could reason with him…Please. I could…

After talking to Kelly, I start nervously eyeing the parking lot. A couple of guys are unloading the donut case from a large truck, and there are two other cars at the opposite end of the lot. Yes! This is happening exactly as planned! I don’t do anything but stare. No 911 call, nothing. The donut guy comes in and says, “Good morning.” Then two big, tough-looking guys approach the counter, and I think, This is it. They order coffee. How clever. Disguised as customers. When I ask what else I can get them, I expect them to say, “Stick your hands in the air! This is a fucking robbery,” or something equally terrifying. Exchanging their money in the register, my arms are actually torn between handing over the change and going vertical—a bisector in a right triangle. What’s the holdup, holdup? Both men give me sort of funny looks. My eyes dart around and I offer their change and an awkward smile. They walk out. I am pretty disappointed now. Part of me wants to run over to the other counter and demand, “Kelly! You said we were going to get robbed. What the hell?”

After a few minutes, the store is flooded with people. Everybody’s waking up. Even cops are here. All the lights are on. I’m pretty sure the chances of any one attempting to pull off a robbery have dropped to zero. I concede that this is “just another day!” Great, I think, all that planning for nothing. And then, No. No way. Not nothing. I’ll be ready, next time. I’ll be ready.