My eyes and ears peeled. Always on the lookout for trouble, even when I’m taking a break.
I’m not looking for trouble. Just trying to spot it before it tries to bite me.
And I’m not such a grouch that I don’t try to help anyone either. Little things, like helping a senior citizen reach groceries from the top shelf. Or buying someone less fortunate a meal, or just slipping ‘em a twenty. Letting them decide what they need most.
The tall, dark, and silent vibe I put out is just like the uniform.
Like the gun and the badge.
They’re just props, and without the uniform, I guess I rely on my size and my steel-eyed look.
My instinct, I’d call it. That’s what really has my back nowadays.
Harry Whodunnit. That’s what they used to call me down at the station.
I always just somehowknewwhere to look for clues, or most often, I could see shit in my mind before it happened in real life.
The same instinct, my sixth sense. It still spots people in need as well as sniffs out trouble.
So when Ifeelthe night clerk. When I literallyseehis death flash through my mind. I can’t just grunt and pay for my coffee.
The clear mental picture of him lying on a slab without a face should jangle me.
But my own eyes as well as my inner ones have seen way darker shit than that.
“How’s your night?” I ask casually. Already having scoped the building out of habit.
One entry. One employee only doorway. CCTV that works so you can identify anyone if there is trouble.
Yeah right...
Empty parking lot except for my car and one clerk. With me the only other person in the building.
That I know of.
Boring at a glance, commonplace.
But the clerk’s eyes are telling a different story.
They widen just a little. That helpless stare most everyone has without even knowing it. His mouth opening a little.
His body wanting to speak for itself despite the fear of being heard.
A real need to communicate what’s really bugging him.
But seeing his window, the wheels of his mind turning. It’s clear he’d rather sink. Rather gulp lungfuls of freezing black than put his arm up to signal for help before he goes down.
The clerk sighs. His shoulders sagging when I ask how things are.
“Same shit different day….,” he murmurs, forcing a crooked grimace and jutting his chin to signal if I want anything else.
Not crying for my help. Not begging me to save him. Just a guy working the graveyard shift for minimum wage.
Not a lot I can do there. So I file his look as just another person struggling not to lose their wits in a world that took them without asking years ago.
But damn, man… He’s in trouble whether he knows it or not…
My gut’s never wrong.