It Seems Inevitable That I Will Be Stabbed To Death By A Mental Patient

When Michael takes his meds, he is polite and soft-spoken, even meek. When he visited this week, it was clear that he was not taking them. He ran inside, straight to the coffee pot, taking care to pour equal amounts into the floor and his styrofoam cup.



"REBEL! GIB ME A CIGARETTE!"



"What did you just say," Cheryl asked.



"NOTHIN'. I WAS TALKING TO REBEL."



"Michael, I don't know where my cigarettes are, and I'm busy right now."



"NEVER MIND."



He walked outside and rolled his own from a tobacco pouch tied to his belt. He smoked fast, bracing himself against the frigid wind, and tossed his butt into the street.



He came back inside and announced to no one, "I"M JUST WAITIN' FOR THE BUS!"



When no one replied, he walked from person to person, customers and employees, repeating his announcement, "I'M JUST WAITING FOR THE BUS!"



The store was filling up, and we made three pistol sales in as many minutes. As I was explaining the criminal history check to a buyer, Michael pulled the 12-string Epiphone from its hook, sat on a stool next to my customer, and started playing. He tried to cover his lack of talent with enthusiasm.



"BLUE MOOOOON! I SAW YOU STANDING A...."



He was cut short by a withering glare from Cheryl, and decided to wait for the bus outside.



I am supposed to order Michael a Smith & Wesson knife with a 10" blade when he gets his disability check. I feel certain that his first act upon purchasing this knife will be to stab me in the throat with it.