I was Robbed at Gunpoint

Most people think they know what they would do, should a robbery occur at their job. I've heard some say, "If somebody pulls a gun on me, I'm gonna fight!" Others say, "I'm not stupid, I'll just give them the money." We've all read about armed robbery in the newspapers, and most think it's one of those things that "happens to someone else". We've all heard it on the news. We've all talked about it, at some time or another. But what would you do, if faced with the situation? If you were staring down the barrel of a .45 automatic pistol?

Any good store will take new clerks through an orientation process. This orientation includes how to check a potential customer's identification, if they're buying alcohol or cigarettes. It includes how to stock the shelves and coolers. It should also include-and most do-an in-depth training on step-by-step protocol of how to handle a robbery. This is what protocol states:

If someone pulls any weapon and tells you they want the money, you're supposed to comply, immediately. Look without seeming to look, taking in as many details as possible. What does the person look like? What are they wearing? Are they wearing gloves? Which way did they go when leaving the store? As soon as they leave, you're supposed to push the "panic button", then immediately lock down the store. After this, call your manager, and then simply wait, touching nothing. Keep your head, keep your cool, and fully comply with the robber. Lock down. Give statement to police. Hmm. Simple, right? Would you be able to follow perfectly this protocol?

Thursday, July 24, 2008. Just another typical workday. I went into Pasco #2 at 1:45 pm. I am always 15 minutes early. Just coming back from my two days off. Cheryl, the manager, had been working day-shift, and we were doing shift-change, when she suddenly said, "You know we were robbed Tuesday night, right?" Well, no, I didn't know. It hadn't been in the papers, and no one had told me till now. Our other night-shift girl had been working that night, when a man pulled a knife on her. She hadn't counted down the drawer to the mandatory $50 limit, so he'd gotten away with $111. She was so distraught that she quit.

Cheryl and I went over the procedures to follow, in case of robbery. I had worked at that store, a total of 3 ½ months, and never been robbed, though I'd been told when I was hired, that it was the most-robbed store in their chain. It was in the worst neighborhood. I'd worked at a local EZ-Mart for several months before that, and never been robbed. I'd worked at a tobacco store for 2 ½ years before that, and never been robbed. I looked at Cheryl and said, as I'd said to so many before, "No one really knows how they'll react, when faced with that. I can't tell you I'd do the right thing, because I don't know if I would. I know in my mind what I'm SUPPOSED to do." She left at 2:15 pm.

I had perhaps five customers come through, while I was putting away inventory. And, remaining consciously aware of the fact that the store had been robbed just two days before, I counted down the drawer after each customer. At approximately 2:30 pm, in walked a tall black male. He was wearing dark sunglasses, a dark tee shirt-either dark navy or black-and dark denim jeans. Standing outside the door was another black male. He wore a long white tee shirt with some kind of decoration on it, and grey shorts. He stuck his head in to address the man at the counter, "I know you're not going to."

I looked back at the man standing before me. He grinned at me, and then whipped out what appeared to be a .45 automatic pistol. Steel grey and dark grey. Dull, not shiny, metal. I stared at the gun, as he said, "Gimme all your money." I just stared at him. Time seemed to slow down, and a sense of unreality swept over me. Oddly, I felt no fear.

The man at the door said, "Come on, man. Come ON!"

I looked back at the gun, then at the gunman. He pushed the gun right in my face. "Gimme your money," he repeated.

A little something about me, here: I have NEVER liked to have anyone put ANYTHING in my face. Once upon a time, my first instinct was to fight someone who even put a finger in my face. Nine years of working in nursing homes, and having to deal with residents who always got belligerent, taught me to slow down that response.

I reached out, and gently pushed the gun away from my face. The lookout shouted, again, to the gunman to hurry up. The gunman grabbed the front of my shirt, pulling me forward toward him, and then hit me across the jaw, shouting, "I'm not joking, BITCH!"

In that moment, reality soaked in. I thought of my nearly-nine-year-old daughter waiting for me at home. She'd lost her father to a car accident, when she was two years old. I'm all she's got. I was not about to make her an orphan. That's the moment I began to feel fear. I looked down the barrel of that pistol again. Then stepped back, holding my hands up where he could see them, saying calmly, "Take it."

He glanced down at the register. "Open it!" he said, waving the gun again. I stepped forward and pushed the button to open the drawer. Then I stepped back, again, holding my hands where he could see them. In one movement, he swept all the bills from the drawer. Then he tried to lift the tray out, but couldn't. He pointed the gun at me, again. "Pull it out," he said hurriedly. I came forward with both hands, careful to put my hands where he HADN'T touched, because I'd noticed he wasn't wearing any gloves. "Don't push no buttons or nothin'."

I glanced up at him, then at the gun. With more calm than I felt, I responded, "I'm not pushing anything." Then I carefully lifted out the tray. He swept his hand in the drawer, and felt nothing there. We don't put anything under the tray, for just that reason. Then he ran out the door. He and his lookout ran to the left.

As soon as I couldn't see them, I pushed the red button. I waited a second, and then tried to call my manager, Cheryl. Not being able to in touch with her, I immediately dialed 911. Just in case the button wasn't working. While talking to the dispatcher, I felt myself beginning to break, and nearly started to cry. But I stopped it. I kept thinking, it's not over, yet. After getting off the phone, I suddenly realized I'd forgotten to lock down the store. I grabbed my keys and ran to the door. I opened the first door with my arm, not my hand, to lock down the second door, then shut and locked the first one. Only then, did I try again to call Cheryl. When she answered, all I could say was, "We've just been robbed again. The police are on their way." Getting off the phone with her, I tried to call my District Manager, Tonya. That's when the police showed up.

While I was explaining everything to them, in came Cheryl (Manager), Tonya (District Manager), and Lynn and Greg (owners). I told my story many times, to many different officers, and to all associated with the store. Two officers went into the office with Cheryl, Tonya, Lynn, and Greg, to watch the security tape. A few minutes later, they came back out. Cheryl was crying, "I'm sorry, Melissa." I looked at her. She looked at one of the officers and said, "They were in here, this morning, trying to buy cigarettes. When I asked for their IDs, they got mad and left. That one in the white shirt was standing beside the store, when I left. If I'd just gone out that way, instead of the other way!" I found myself comforting her. I was still in a state of shock.

An ambulance arrived on the scene, so I could have them check my jaw. They needed to make sure nothing was broken. I'd been told an imprint of the gun was still on my face. That's how hard he hit me. Both sides of my lower jaw hurt, and I had a headache, but nothing was broken or out of joint.

Next, the barrage of questions came from all the officers, and my preliminary statement. Then an officer escorted me home to change shirts. They needed the one I was wearing for DNA evidence. Then to the station for my official statement. On the way to the station, the officer got word the suspects were in custody and already at the station. I thought Wow! That was fast. Then the biggest shock: the lookout was 14 years old. The gunman was only 16.

After it was all over, I took my daughter to a friend's, to spend the night. Then, without my daughter there to see me, I broke down. Yes, I was scared. Yes, nervous. I will not lie. Did it affect me? Yes, more than I thought, at first. All I keep seeing is that gun pointed at my face and the gunman's grin, just before he pulled it on me. "Just get over it." "At least you're alive." "It's all over now."

No, it's not over. I'll never forget it. I suffered abuse, as a child, for which I sought counseling. I suffered at the hands of my very-abusive first husband, which I sought counseling for. There have been other things I've suffered through for which I sought counseling. This-although it lasted about 5 minutes, total-ranks up there with all of them. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is what the female officer told me. An armed robbery affects a woman as badly as if she'd been raped. That's what I was told. Maybe that's true.

I just know how bad this was for me. And I keep thinking that if it'd been a more experienced gunman, he might have shot me, when I moved the gun. I keep thinking about the next time. And I wonder if I followed protocol. I was told I followed as precisely as I could have, under the circumstances, and did very well. They appreciated the "perfectly accurate" description I gave, because it led to an arrest within 45 minutes of the robbery. If it had been someone else running the register, what would have happened?

No, it's not over. I wonder if it ever will be.