Shred of Evidence

I’m getting tired of making lemonade. You know, if God hands you lemons, make lemonade? Maybe my life would take an upward swing if He’d choose to toss a few apples my way. I know I’d enjoy easing a big forkful of apple pie into my churning belly right about now, maybe with a little vanilla ice cream dripping down the sides. There’s just something about the scent of cinnamon and the sugary taste of warm apple pie that calms the nerves in a tense situation.

Funny thing about apples. Eve crunches down into one, letting all that sweet juice dribble down her chin and the Old Guy tosses her out of the garden. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, He threw in a few extra curses for all us women hidden in the outskirts of her shadow. Too bad he didn’t hang a few lemons on that tree. No way Eve would’ve sunk her pearly whites into that sour pulp. But I digress.

As I was saying, before getting side-tracked by cursed apples and sour lemons, my life doesn’t bask in the proverbial sunshine of the All-American dream of baseball, apple pie and Mom. My Welfare-American nightmare has been knitted together with food stamps and minimum wage jobs ever since my husband downed a six pack and moseyed out the door with our babysitter, leaving me with two kids dangling on the fringe of my cut-offs. Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids. I might even be willing to shoot someone, if it was to keep their lives on an even keel. And at this moment in time, that’s a perfectly understandable thought, given that I’m wallow deep in a pigsty situation.

I actually thought my life had taken a turn for the better when I got this job hustling hamburgers at Burger King. The job doesn’t do much more than pay for day care and lollypops, which makes me wonder why I’m not home with my kids. It isn’t as if I love this job. In reality, the only upside to holding down any job right now is the break it gives me from skinned knees and runny noses. It’s just breathing room for my peace of mind.

But that’s not the case today. Today, there’s a drugged out teenager with a gun standing at the counter. He wants the money in the cash drawer along with a side order of Whoppers and fries.

Jeff, our baby faced manager, is helming the register. I can see the beads of sweat exploding like acne on his forehead and I’m praying just as fast as I can that he’ll hand over the cash and some free food to keep us all safe. But my prayers aren’t ascending fast enough. I can see Jeff seizing on his John Wayne moment. I swear there’s a jingle of spurs in the room as he squares his shoulders to make his move. He’s remembered the gun hidden under the counter. Which leaves me with the pressing problem of who’ll take care of my kids if either one of these idiots starts shooting.

Going with the rush of lemonade adrenaline, I use my body to push Jeff away from the gun, while I shove the paper bag full of food that I’m holding towards the junkie. Opening the cash drawer on the register, I scoop out the money, stuff it in another bag and hand it over. “Would you care for anything else?” I ask.

But the kid’s already running out the door. No shots fired. No blood spreading out across the floor. Everybody left standing to live another day. Even John Wayne couldn’t have squeezed his lemons any faster.