I love the night life; cold as it can be. The Federal Bureau of Investigation has named the position of convenience store clerk among the most dangerous jobs in the nation. Less than a fortnight ago, I ended my state sponsored vacation to become a third shift cashier for a major convenience store chain. Dying in the service of corporate America is an abominable tragedy.

After three years of damnation to afternoons and dreaded mornings, crisp night air and comforting black skies are now my reward for dragging ass out of bed. I soak in the evening during my walk to work, where a maintenance routine is my primary responsibility. On Friday at 1 a.m., my routine got shot full of holes.

As I was alone writing off old doughnuts, a tall man wearing a black mask pointed a revolver at me. I went numb. "Open the safe," he barked at me as I walked behind the counter. He should have known the impossibility of a cashier opening a safe. I thought that if my survival hinged on his procuring the safe's contents--I was fucked. "Don't do nothin' stupid," he gruffly advised me. This gunman was obviously intoxicated with a power trip and attempting a Charles Bronson impersonation. Belting out that robbery cliche must have made him feel special. "I ain't tryin' nothin' stupid," I calmly reassured him.

I disregarded his demand for the safe and cracked open my register. A second man, the lookout, was standing at the entrance and holding the door open. They strongly urged me to "hurry up." I locked eyes with the armed man as he grabbed the bills from my drawer and demanded more. I'd been making habitual eye contact with him the entire time and suddenly remembered reading that cashiers shouldn't look at robbers. In his eyes I saw a man ready to kill. I averted my eyes and happily granted his request for additional funds. I signed on to the other two registers and set their drawers on the counter.

They had the money. Now what? I wasn't thinking of the security of the gold ring on my right hand or the $64 in my wallet. For an instant, I wondered if my next workplace would be Heaven or Hell. The duo cheered as they dashed away.

"It was a very good robbery," a cop said to another while standing in the parking lot. I agree. The robbers wore masks and nondescript clothing, executed the job well and I didn't get shot. I sign on the door reads "store has less than $30 after dark;" they scored more than $200. Although I was alone, all three registers were ready and each held more than $65. Had I failed to drop some $1,700 from money orders well before the robbery, I'd surely be looking for a new job. By 2:15 a.m., the cops were done and I still had those doughnuts to write off.

According to my general manager, this was the store's first armed robbery. The store is located in respectable Far North Dallas. However, my apartment on McCallum Boulevard is a mere 20 minute walk away. Hurricane Katrina evacuees flooded this low rent street, giving rise to a persistent crime wave.

Many cashiers have perceived near misses and some have been murdered. After dark, suspicious people and activities flourish, leaving employees to wonder. We joked about it at my previous third shift job, which was at a fast food diner. "Don't be a hero" is a common training slogan. Potential heroes we certainly were not.

While having a smoke one night at my job as a third shift waiter, the cook and I spotted an occupied brokedick car with limo tint in our parking lot. It was 3 a.m. and he'd been there for at least 30 minutes. We had the manager call police. Just before the cops arrived, so did the driver's date. A black man emerged from that shitty car and, as I predicted, he played the race card and demanded a free meal as compensation for our hateful discrimination. This intellectual offspring of Al Sharpton must hate white people, being that the bitchface didn't tip me. More likely, he was just another lowlife looking for a free ride.

My first drive-thru booth was home to the worst security blunder in the annals of retail stupidity. The evening blitzkrieg prevented managers from picking up cash from my drawer. There were no drop boxes. We were so busy that I might have a few thousand dollars on any given night. With no room left in my drawer, I stuffed gobs of $20 bills into small brown bags and tossed them behind my register. Considering the complete isolation of my work station, this was obviously an armed robber's wet dream.

While in training at my new job, the boss assured me that our nights were relatively safe. There was no preparation and little training for the worst case scenario. Ultimately, cashiering after dusk is a crap shoot. Like any cash handler who is cognizant of reality, I'm glad to cough up corporate's money when my life is threatened. To make a living on the shift I love, I'll gamble another encounter with those John Dillinger wannabes. But, I know what I'll be thinking of the next time I write off those second-rate doughnuts.