I’m on a call. Wait your turn.

In the dim twilight of a suburb west of Denver, a bizarre scene commenced that would disrupt the peaceful evening. It all began when Jerry “Overbite” Wallinghausen decided to breach the tranquility of the nearby convenience store.

He stepped inside, wrapped in an ill-fitting trench coat, his face concealed by a massive pair of sunglasses. Clutched in his hand was an ratty pistol he got a local community sale at the park from a guy who claimed to be ex-special forces, a relic that had seen better days. He raised it high, his voice trembling as he barked out, “Hand over your money and jewels!”

There was a brief moment of stunned silence, a collective inhale from the patrons, before they resumed their activities. The sudden outburst had barely registered. Some assumed this was a prank, while others were simply too engrossed in their shopping to care. The wave of indifference left Jerry reeling.

Disconcerted but not discouraged, Jerry approached the counter where Brad, a teenage cashier, was stationed. With the phone nestled between his ear and shoulder, Brad barely acknowledged Jerry’s presence. “Give me the money,” Jerry demanded, his voice straining to be intimidating.

Instead of the expected compliance, Brad pointed to the phone, his eyes never leaving his comic book. “I’m on a call. Wait your turn.”

Jerry stood there, flabbergasted. His grand plan, his moment of reckoning, had been reduced to insignificance. Looking around, he realized he was just a sideshow in the lives of these people. The realization stung, making his resolve waver.

As he pondered his predicament, a delivery guy balancing a stack of beer crates nudged him. “Hey, bud, can you hold the fridge door open?” Without thinking, Jerry complied, still clutching the rusty gun as the man restocked the beer.

Disheartened, Jerry murmured, “Alright,” and stepped aside. He found himself beside a small station stacked with coffee supplies. A woman asked him for a stirring stick, which he handed over in a daze. It was the most ordinary interaction he’d had all day, and it felt surreal amidst his botched robbery attempt.

“Rough day?” a sympathetic voice asked. Jerry turned to see an elderly woman picking out her lottery numbers, her eyes filled with understanding. Jerry deflated, sighing. “You could say that.”

With a sense of irony washing over him, Jerry started to laugh. It wasn’t a joyous laugh, but a sad, defeated one. The entire store fell silent as they watched him, the absurdity of the situation finally dawning on them.

In the end, Jerry left the convenience store, his dreams of grandeur shattered. As he shuffled out into the night, a homeless man huddled on the sidewalk asked him for spare change. Jerry glanced at his empty hands, the irony hitting him harder than ever. “Sorry, brother, I have nothing to give you, and I had a bad day at work,” he confessed.

The man studied him for a moment, then handed him a crumpled dollar bill. “Sorry to hear that, man. Here’s a dollar I just collected. You can have it.”

Jerry looked down at the ground and laughed. And took the dollar.