Corner Store Catastrophe

Look, I need you to understand something right off the bat—I'm not an idiot. (Well, mostly not an idiot. The jury's still out on my decision to wear Crocs to a robbery, but we'll get to that tragic footwear choice later.) You might be wondering why someone with a bachelor's degree in Contemporary Philosophy—yes, I know, LAUGH IT UP—would end up pointing a trembling finger-gun at a Korean corner store owner at 3:47 AM on a Tuesday. The answer involves three maxed-out credit cards, a gambling addiction I swear I totally have under control, and an ex-girlfriend who took my cat in the breakup. (Mr. Whiskers, if you're reading this somehow, I miss you buddy.)

But here's the thing about desperate times and desperate measures—they're basically first cousins who shouldn't date but totally are, you know what I mean?

The fluorescent lights in Kim's Quick-Stop buzzed like thoughts in my anxiety-riddled brain—incessant, flickering, probably in need of professional attention. I'd been standing in the chips aisle for twenty minutes, pretending to have an existential crisis over Doritos flavors (Cool Ranch vs. Nacho Cheese as a metaphor for the duality of man), while actually having a very real existential crisis about everything else.

My hand was in my pocket, wrapped around absolutely nothing, which—if we're being philosophical about it—is a pretty apt metaphor for my entire life strategy. The plan was simple: walk up to the counter, pretend to have a gun, grab the cash, exit stage left, pay off Kenny the bookie before he introduces my kneecaps to his favorite baseball bat. TOTALLY FOOLPROOF, RIGHT?

Wrong. So cosmically, catastrophically wrong that future civilizations will probably discover the wrongness fossilized in sedimentary rock layers and build entire religions around avoiding such spectacular failures.

Because here's what they don't tell you about robbing corner stores—the owner might be a former Olympic speed-walker. (I'm not making this up. There's literally a faded photo behind the counter of Mr. Kim power-walking his way to bronze in Seoul '88, a fact I probably should have noticed during my previous 3 AM taquito runs.) They also don't tell you that Crocs—even in Adventure Mode with the heel strap engaged—are surprisingly poor getaway shoes.

"Empty the register!" I shouted, my voice cracking like I was going through puberty all over again. (Note to self: if you ever attempt armed robbery again—WHICH YOU WON'T—maybe try voice coaching first?)

Mr. Kim looked at my pocket—my very obviously empty pocket—then at my Crocs (lime green, because if you're going to make questionable life choices, why not make them VISIBLE FROM SPACE), and did something I hadn't factored into my brilliant plan.

He laughed.

Not just a chuckle, mind you. We're talking full-body, shoulders-shaking, tears-in-eyes LAUGHTER that made me feel like I should either join in or offer to workshop better material for next time.

"You want money?" he wheezed between guffaws. "Maybe first you buy better shoes, eh?"

And that's when my fight-or-flight response kicked in, except—because I'm me—it manifested as more of a deer-in-headlights-then-trip-over-own-feet response. As I stumbled backward, my Croc caught on the edge of a display stand, sending approximately 847 packets of beef jerky cascading through the air like meaty confetti.

In the ensuing chaos—as I lay there, covered in teriyaki-flavored shame—Mr. Kim didn't call the cops. Instead, he made me tea. TEA. Earl Grey, served in a chipped mug that said "World's Okayest Speed Walker."

"You seem like you're having bad time," he said, sliding the mug across the counter to where I sat, thoroughly defeated, still picking beef jerky crumbs out of my hair. "Want to talk about it?"

And you know what? I did. I really, really did.

(Though I still maintain that the Crocs were a bold fashion choice, not a failure. Some people just aren't ready for that level of comfort-forward criminality.)