Walmart Security's Journal: Exile [draft]

It was late, nearly seven in the morning. The sun was rising; it crept through my window, seemingly in defiance of the darkness that was beginning to elude it. Its effluence of light had proven itself to be more beautiful every day. A mere twenty years of age, I'd not yet experienced a job in which people trusted you, especially with their well-being. Searching futily for the cable that connected the remote control to the new Zenith television that I'd purchased from my parents, I realized that my appointment was only an hour away. I hadn't any time to leisurely brew coffee and catch up on the country's events. As I stepped out of bed, I cringed slightly. The tile floor always seemed gelid to my bare feet during the winter, especially after one of those egregiously arctic nights when it seemed as though the season would never enter the transition to spring.

According to popular rumor, William Robinson, the man who would later interview me, was facilely impressed by somebody who wore fashionable clothing. I had purchased a pink polo shirt and dress pants a week prior from the Sears catalog. Today I would exhibit them as I attempted to become a security assistant. I stepped into the five year old maroon, 1947 Plymouth that I'd inherited from my grandfather. It operated immaculately. The bleak, uneventful drive to Robinson's office seemed like an eternity; I was quite eager to commence my interview.

"So you're Peter Geralds," a stocky man greeted me. He pointed at a chair. "Come, sit. May I offer you something to drink? Water? Coffee?"

"No, thank you." I replied with all of the calmness that I could muster.

He chuckled. "A martini?"

I had anticipated that William would be a businesslike, humorless man. What a pleasant surprise it was to meet somebody in an executive position that was so laid-back. "So, you want to be a security..." He flipped through my application. "... assistant, do you?"

"Why yes sir, I do." I hadn't been in a mood as pleasant as this for months, perhaps even years.

Then his smile turned to a rather maniacal glare. "You won't live long enough to be one." He hastily produced a Smith and Wesson revolver from his desk drawer and fired twice. I screamed as the bullets penetrated my chest. The man then walked over to my chair and pushed me to the floor. After a moment, I was drowning in my own warm blood, unable to think of anything but the searing pain... ... "Yeah, yeah. No, patient two-four-seven isn't conscious. Yeah, I want a cheeseburger. With mayo. Go get them, Rhonda. Now!" A man said commandingly.

"Fine, you anal-retentive... Ugh." The second voice was that of a woman; she seemed to be unwilling to comply.

  I opened my eyes attenuately. Unbearable pain indicated that I hadn't utilized them for days. My unfocused eyes created a vision of a white blur overhead. Perhaps I'd entered the afterlife. "Are you an angel?" I queried.

Whoever was standing over me began laughing feverishly. "I'm Thomas, your doctor. You certainly have a good sense of humor for somebody who has been unconscious for two days." His voice increased in intensity. "Hey Rhonda, before you leave, mark two-four-seven as conscious!"

"Where am I? Where's Robert? What happened?!" I was fretting. After all, he was my direct responsibility. If he had died, I promised myself that I would leave the security business permanently both in mourning and to prevent another tragedy occuring on my watch.

"You're at Christus Jasper Memorial. I'm afraid to say that Robert Arishima..." I interrupted the doctor in mid-sentence. "No!" I screamed, on the edge of tears. "He can't be dead! Not Robert! Why not me?"

Thomas placed his hand on my shoulder, comforting me. "I'm afraid to say that Mr. Arishima was released without injury two days ago, so you can't see him presently. Would you like me to call him?"

I felt as though I was a simpleton. How humiliating. Hopefully the doctor would practice a lot of discretion with both his peers and other patients, as well as Robert. "Yes, if it isn't bothersome."

"No, not at all," he replied. "Also, I have your incident report here, would you like to read it?"

Predictably, I responded with one word: "yes." Maybe it would shed light on the accident that Robert and I were involved in. My eyes, fortunately, were now focused. I grasped the paper as Thomas handed it to me and began reading the hastily constructed, rather inaccurate report:

"Incident report submitted by Harris on 3 April at 4 AM.

Two security attendants at Jasper Walmart Supercenter (Robert Arishima, Peter Geralds; blue EZSECURE golf cart, 1992) involved in vehicular collision with Paul Cryer (silver Mercedes-Benz SUV, 2001). Cryer reports that an unprovoked altercation (Arishima and Geralds being the aggressors) between the three preceded the accident..."

"Hey, Peter?" It was Robert! I ceased reading as he entered the room. "I've got bad news. You've um, been suspended as a security guard until EZSECURE investigates what happened. I'm sorry... Are you okay?"