How Jake got where he was

As he walked, Jake considered the event that brought him to wherever he was, the standing in line at the convenience store, waiting to pay for a bottle of water, the water as payment for using the restroom, since his car had not needed gas, but Jake had a decided need for the restroom. That was one of the growing- older inconveniences. There had been a time when Jake could, and did, ride for hours in the back of an armored personnel carrier or the front seat of a HUMVEE and never even consider the need to hang hose. You get into your forties, especially hit fifty, and the bladder becomes smaller, or something happens, and there is no such thing as a six-hour ride without a pee break.

So there Jake stood, in line at a dingy, seedy-looking convenience store on a state highway in Alabama, just off the interstate, and a long-haired redneck-looking young man barged in, pistol in hand, cutting to the front of the line, pointing the pistol at the clerk, demanding all the money in the cash register, in a plastic bag. The two people in front of Jake sort of peeled away and went somewhere, giving Jake a close look at the perpetrator, and Jake was not assured by what he saw – sweaty brow, shaking hands, eyes wide, wide open. Jake considered pulling his own pistol and requesting the robber cease and desist, but he knew the bad dude would not heed a commonsense solution. So, Jake waited, his right hand near, but not touching, the revolver in his belt, beneath his black windbreaker at the small of his back.

And then, after taking the bag of cash, the robber shot the clerk. Jake’s experience told him the wound was not mortal – upper right shoulder – but the fact that the robber shot the clerk was indication no one else was safe. So, Jake pulled his revolver and did not hesitate, did not demand the robber drop his gun, but shot the young man in the back of his head.

As he pulled the trigger, Jake heard a shout from near the front door – “Clay!” The robber fell dead as Jake turned. A young woman wearing jeans and a Syracuse T-shirt pointed a sawed-off pump shotgun. Jake was certain he fired first, but speed was of no matter. Jake heard the blast and he saw smoke and flame and then he was on the dingy tile floor and more than one somebody was screaming and another somebody was yelling “Call nine-one-one! Call nine-one-one!”

Damn, dude. You don’t have a phone?

He managed to turn his head, maybe raise his revolver in case the woman intended to fire again – Not lying face-down, she won’t, not …

Leaking blood and brain fluid, Jake remembered thinking.

He took a breath and let it out noisily. She’s dead, I’m dead, the robber’s dead. Well, I was dead. Still am, as far as the other me is concerned. I get dead and then I wake up here, what, five days ago? Four walks ago, five at sundown today. Five days ago and I haven’t seen man or beast, or woman, either. He laughed. Maybe I don’t have to consider any gender non-identification any more. Maybe I can use the gender non-specific pronoun “he” in conversation. Maybe I won’t hear anybody refer to one person as “they.” Aaaanndd maybe I’ll find out what I’m supposed to do here.