text: The waitress, a short, homely woman of about fifty, bumps into the table as she goes by, and my glass of water is knocked to floor. Water spills everywhere. I put my fork down, pancake still speared on it, and look up. “Oh, sir, I’m so sorry!” the waitress cries out as she realizes what she’s done. She immediately pulls out a crumpled paper napkin from a pocket on her apron and places it on the table. “Here, mop it up with this. I’ll to go back to the kitchen to get some more for you, hun. I’m terribly sorry, really, I am.” “It’s only water,” I say. “It’ll dry. Thank you for the napkin. But don’t worry, it was clearly an accident.” She’s insistent. “No, don’t thank me for nothin’, sugar, it was all my fault. Now just hold tight, I’ll be right back.” As quickly as she came, she whisks herself across the restaurant toward the kitchen and disappears out of sight. With the waitress gone, I survey the damage. It isn’t too bad. Nothing spilled on me, a small amount latent on the table, and the rest already half-dried into the springy, soft carpeting underfoot. I uncrumple the napkin and lay it on top of the table spill. Wait. There’s something written on the napkin. I snatch the napkin up and examine it. It’s dripping wet from the table, and a few drops fall onto the table and onto my pants. But I’m focusing on the words inscribed on the napkin. In dainty, loopy cursive, the words read, “Get out of here now, while you still can.” A million thoughts race through my head at once as the restaurant becomes blurry around me and everything starts to spin. The din of voices and the clatter of silverware sink into the background. The napkin falls out of my limp hands onto my lap, and I gently place - or perhaps slam - my hands on the table to steady myself. “Again, real sorry for the mess, honey. Here you go.” I feel a small stack of more paper napkins brush my hand as it’s placed on the table. I snap out of my stupor briefly and see the waitress standing above me, a sweet, genuine smile stretched across her face. I feel comforted, if for just a brief moment. “N-no, ma’am, you - you’re okay, really,” I manage to stammer while hurriedly balling up the moist napkin and hiding it in my hands. “Just a little spill. I’ve got it under control.” The waitress loses her grin for a second and glances at my clasped hands before beaming even brighter and looking me in the eye. “Thanks a million for your chipper attitude, darlin’,” she says. “Too early to be dealin’ with grumps. Good to know there are still polite people like you in this world.” I’m stunned, but I force a nod and a smile. “No problem, ma’am. Thanks for your help.” She blinks, smiles a little wider, nods in return, and goes. I lay the mass of dry napkins over what’s left of the water puddle, and I use the one on top to clean up the drips from the wet napkin - the wet napkin with the warning. Speaking of which, what does it mean? I think of the diner scene from Pulp Fiction and smile to myself, but then I remember that this is a serious situation and the smile goes out like a light. I don’t have time to think it over, I decide. The instructions are rather clear. “Get out of here now.” That’s all I need to know. I eat at this diner all the time, and since I always order the same thing, I know already what the bill will come out to. I pull out the correct amount from my wallet, plus tip, and set it down on the table. Slowly, so as not to alert anybody, I slide my wallet back into my pocket, grab my bag from the floor below the chair, and start for the door. I want to search out the waitress to thank her properly, but I decide against it, as it might take too much time. The period of “while I still can” may pass. As I inch ever closer, I count the distance in my head. Only thirty feet or so ahead to the exit, to safety. Twenty. Ten. “Everybody get on the fuckin’ ground!” Shit, shit. I wasn’t fast enough. I wonder whether to run or get down as ordered, but the KRAK! of a handgun shot and a bullet hole in the ceiling overhead do the thinking for me. I get down. My back is facing the rest of the restaurant, so I can’t see anything besides the parking lot outside. I see a family piling out of their minivan across the lot. They’re dressed nicely. Probably here for a nice late breakfast after church. They don’t deserve this. I hear wailing behind me from a gruff, husky-voiced man. I recognize his voice as the manager’s. “No, Helen, please, you can’t do thi - ” KRAK! A thump as the heavyset man falls lifeless to the floor. I bite my lip and try not to cry out. Helen? That was the name of my waitress, the one who gave me the napkin! It couldn’t be the same woman, could it? Could it? A kid starts crying, loudly and annoyingly, choking, wheezing sobs of dead, harrowed fear. A chill goes through my spine, and I shudder a bit. There’s another gunshot, and the crying stops. I don’t know if the gunman - or gunwoman, apparently - shot the wall or the kid. I pray to God that it’s the former. As all of this unfolds, I can see the family outside growing ever closer, blissfully unaware. They’re perhaps fifty feet away now. I glance behind me quickly and catch a glimpse of a woman standing with her back turned and brandishing something in the air - the shooter and her weapon, but I don’t look for long enough to see any defining features - and I realize that I have enough time. I wave my arms frantically at the family to get their attention, point behind them to ward them away, and put my right hand to my ear like a phone to notify them that I need the police. The father nods at me in understanding, puts his arms around his two children, says a few words to his wife, and then hurries with his family back to their car. Hopefully to go find a phone. The national response time is three minutes, if I remember correctly, and it’s a relatively quiet Sunday morning, so the cavalry should arrive soon. That is, if the father calls the police. He may be too concerned for his own safety and rush home, forgetting my and the rest of the diner’s plight. But I trust him - I have to. He’s our only chance. Behind me, I hear no sound but footsteps. Someone is pacing around the floor of the restaurant. The shooter, surveying her targets like a hawk circling above a mischief of mice. She’s the predator; we’re the prey. The footfalls on the carpeting are almost silent - it’s not much more than the weight of the person moving around that lets me know that someone is indeed there. But by the entrance to the diner, in the area immediately behind me and around me, there’s not carpeting, but linoleum tile. The soft footsteps along the carpet crescendo gradually. They become harsh click-clacks as the person makes her way to the linoleum. Then they come to a halt. Shit. She can’t be more than a few feet away from me. My heart stops, my blood quits pumping, my breathing ceases. This is it. I stare at the asphalt outside, freedom. So close and yet so far. I prepare for the bullet. “Sugar?” I force myself to remain inert. It’s bait, I’m sure. She wants me to move so she has an excuse to shoot me dead. “Sugar, d’ya hear me? I’m sure you do.” Not a muscle moves. “Come on now.” I don’t even allow myself to blink. Footsteps resume. The click-clack draws nearer until I can feel the waitress’s presence above me. I stay immobile, not allowing myself to look at her or acknowledge her in the slightest. The smallest move could spell my death. Then, to my surprise, she pushes the door open. “You were always such a nice customer, darlin’,” she soothes. Her voice is so soft and smooth. How could she be who she is with such a voice? “I loved seein’ you in here. So get goin’ now, I ain’t goin’ to shoot you. Come on now. Get.” I blink, turn my head slowly, and look up at her. She smiles. Feeling safe, I ease myself to my feet and stand facing her for a moment in disbelief. In the moment, I realize that I have a few options. I could try to subdue her now, while she isn’t focusing on killing anyone. I could try to talk to her and get her to stop, calm her down until the police arrive. Or... I could just let go. Listen to what she says. Get. But I can’t do that. I would never be able to face myself again. I can’t leave these people to die. I can’t. I feel the eyes of everyone in the restaurant on me. I feel the earth below me, the air around me, and the sky above. I feel the stomach-churning horror of the atrocity in front of me and the endless freedom and security in the peaceful forever behind me. And now I hear sirens, and see blue and red reflected in the glass of the door. Helen, the waitress, turns around in desperation and starts firing with reckless abandon. I see a few bullets eat into the walls, and I see several people get struck, scream, and fall. I see blood, and I can smell it too. There’s running from behind me, and it’s getting closer and closer. I rush forward and try to grab Helen, but then I feel a hand push me aside, and I fall to the ground. There’s more confused shouting and a few gunshots, and then all sound ceases. The world stops for a few moments, and I feel nothing. I consider the fact that I might be dead. A hand grabs mine and hoists me to my feet. A young officer eyes me with concern. “Sir, are you all right? Are you injured?” “I’m perfectly fine,” I answer. “I’m not hit. The fall hurt, though.” A weary smile of relief etches itself into the officer’s face. “I’m sure it did. I’m sorry I had to do that, sir, but I’d rather you fall and get hurt than be shot.” “I understand, officer.” I nod curtly, and look around. “Am I free to go?” “We’re going to need you to answer a few questions, of course,” the officer says. “So you’ll be coming down to the station with us after the ambulances arrive and we can get the injured and dead cleared out.” This has been a bizarre, almost unreal day, and I think I should be the one asking the questions. But I acquiesce. “Yes, officer. I’ll wait right here, if that’s fine.” He nods. “Of course. Just sit tight, it won’t be long. You’re sure that you aren’t injured?” “I’m not,” I confirm. “I feel right as rain.” “Good.” He goes, leaving me alone. I’m standing, but my legs feel weak, so I sit on the asphalt. I press my back against the wall of the restaurant, facing myself away from the carnage inside. I hear the wailing cries of the wounded inside as the officers search the building and clear out the survivors - and the dead - and I have to put my hands over my ears, close my eyes tight, and roll up into a ball right there on the parking lot. It doesn’t work completely - the horrible stench still hangs in the air - but it helps. Time passes just the same, and after a while, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I uncurl myself and sit up to see the same young officer from before. “We’re taking you downtown now, sir,” he tells me. “Don’t worry, you’re not under arrest, but we do need you to answer a few questions. So we can get a full report on the situation. Try to figure out what was going on.” As he pulls me to my feet and escorts me to his vehicle, anger and sadness well up inside me and they pour over. “Why?” I scream at him, at the sky, at Helen. “Why?” “Sir,” he says. “trying to answer that question is what my job’s all about, but I still couldn’t tell you. I’m so sorry.” But his sorry falls on deaf ears. I’m no longer listening - I don’t think I’ll ever listen again. I am a man who has witnessed firsthand the greatest malevolence dreamt of by the human heart. I will never forget it, and it shall haunt my dreams forever to know that such a thing can be done so cruelly, so indiscriminately, so ruthlessly. And with such little warning, except for in the form of a paper napkin. I do not know why I was spared; I do not think that I will ever know. But never forget this: tremble at what man is capable of, but fear more the mask under which he hides it.