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It took precisely fifteen seconds for John Wayne O'Grady to respond to the sound of the girl's voice. Fifteen seconds for the dispassionate weight of the shotgun in his hands to become leaden and dead. He saw the girl at the counter with her hands crossed in front of her and an imperious expression on her face. He saw the fat man turn instinctively toward the girl and speak, asking her to sit down. He saw the manager's shoulders tense up as he remembered that he was under the threat of death if he uttered a word. He saw the manager turn back apologetically, eyes locked on the lethal weapon. He saw the girl register fear as she realized for the first time that there was an armed man in the room.
Then the gun grew uncomfortable in his hands, and he shifted his grip slightly. A barely audible gasp escaped from the manager's lips, enough to spark O'Grady back to reality.
Fifteen seconds.
"Didn't like that, huh?" A lopsided smile creased O'Grady's features as he watched the manager wipe his brow. He shifted the shotgun slightly, subtle movements that just might be the precursor to a more dramatic action. He seemed to take pleasure in the way the manager's eyes were locked on the Barrett's trigger, the way his skin was sweaty, his eyelids puffy.
Then the girl at the counter spoke again, this time in a small voice. "What's going on?"
The terrified customers in the restaurant watched as O'Grady shifted his gaze from the manager to the girl. The gunman was tall, so he had to look down a long way from his tabletop perch to meet the girl's eyes. O'Grady frowned, then rested the gun momentarily, eased it from the burden of threatener, and ran his hand through his thinning hair. Flecks of dandruff flew onto his shoulder. The face of O'Grady was inscrutable, a stone wall of emptiness, yet the terrified hostages studied it intensely as they waited, fearful of what he might do next.
"You," said O'Grady, pointing to the sweating manager. "You've been trained in the ways of Family Value restaurants, right? Trained to cook with packaged bread buns and frozen meat. You've been trained to deal with a sanitized workplace that fits into neat, plastic molds."
Close to panic, the manager, Theo Constantine, couldn't concentrate on the words. He was nervous at the best of times, spending most of his working day as if every mishap was a catastrophe. Right now the mildly jittery, bumbling, aloof manager was caught in a frozen state of hysteria.
"What's the procedure?" asked O'Grady, staring the manager in the eye.
Constantine squeaked a tiny, "What?" out of his constricted throat.
"I know how your multinational masters think," said O'Grady. "I know you were trained to deal with difficult children during the endless hours of manager's school you attended. So what's the procedure? Or weren't you listening as well as all the other managers? Eh? Those boys in their pressed trousers and clean white shirts and their Hi, I'm Nobody badges pinned neatly to their chests. What's the procedure to get her out of the way?" O'Grady nodded toward the girl.
"Her?" asked Constantine. He was met with the steely gaze of O'Grady. "You want me to deal with the girl?"
O'Grady didn't move. He watched as the manager sighed and walked over to the girl at the counter, asking, "Where are your parents?"
"I don't know..."
"Did they go to the bathroom?"
"I don't know!"
"So far, so bad," said O'Grady as the manager took the girl by the arm and led her over to the woman with the small boy. Both mother and son backed themselves farther against the wall.
"Is this your daughter?"
"No."
"Would you mind keeping an eye on her..."
He didn't bother finishing his sentence. The woman shook her head so emphatically she was in danger of tearing a neck muscle. The manager looked around for another possible mother or father figure and received equally flat refusals from the other customers. The girl clutched his hand tightly, a tense, almost squinting expression on her face. She looked up at the manager, her only port in this maelstrom of madness, but he didn't want her, either. He steered her to a fenced -- in play area at the back of the restaurant with an order to stay put. But as soon as the manager had turned away the girl stood up, tears flowing down her cheeks, and followed him back to the counter.
O'Grady laughed out loud. "Can you see it?" he shouted. "The first lesson in the reeducation of the people has been played out to perfection. This girl represents everything that is wrong with the so -- called Family Value code of conduct. She won't be shoved into a standard -- sized hole. She won't be forced to fit into their artificial environment. She is real, not Family Value. There is no family value in Family Value. There's only plastic and wastepaper and tasteless saturated fats. There's only useless fools like this manager here who follow the company line and peddle their lies but can't deal with anything human!"
The manager flushed a deep red. Turning here and there for some kind of outlet for his embarrassment, he saw the girl behind him and spoke in a harsh voice, "I thought I told you to stay put!" The girl burst into hysterical sobs and a murmur of outrage broke out among the customers.
O'Grady nodded sagely, then raised the Barrett up higher and aimed it at the manager's head. "Get the hell back here," he snapped.
"Oh, jeez," quivered the manager, his eyes locked on the Barrett. "What do you want to point that thing at me for?"
Since pointing a weapon was such an unambiguous and clear act, O'Grady did not answer. Instead, he turned toward the terrified customers, seeking out the irresponsible parents who had allowed their child to be subjected to the humiliation of the "Family Value Way."
"Whose kid is this?" asked O'Grady. "Yours? Yours?"
The customers shook their heads, looked down at their feet, or adopted blank expressions. None claimed the child. No mother stepped forward to soothe her sobs, to hold her close. No father emerged to pick his daughter up and console her.
"What the hell is going on here?" shouted O'Grady.
"It appears that she's here without..." began the manager, but O'Grady silenced him with a wave of the Barrett.
"Where the hell are her parents? Are they hiding? Where are they?"
He pointed the shotgun at every corner, swinging the barrel around wildly, sweeping it past the heads of frightened customers and terrified children.
"I don't know," shouted the manager desperately. "Please calm down..."
"What the hell is going on here? Are they trying to be heroes?"
"No. They..."
"Because I'll kill 'em if they are."
"No one is trying to be a hero..."
"Come out now! Come out or I'll start shooting for the hell of it!" He cocked his shooting elbow up high, eye to the sight, his cheek muscles twitching with tension.
The manager opened his mouth to shout "No!" He sucked a deep breath into his lungs, swelling his chest cavity, expanding the musculature and excess fat around his rib cage. But before he could force the air out, another voice shouted.
"They're not here, you horrible man. They're not here!"
O'Grady lowered the shotgun slowly and stood on the table panting, the sweat pouring from his forehead.
"What?" he said.
"They're not here," repeated the girl, tears pouring down her cheeks.
