Minyard Math

E-mail. It's so great, politically.

Probably my favorite of all movie scenes as a kid was when the villagers and peasants marched on Dr. Frankenstein's castle at night with those torches. I think that scene may still be my own notion of political activity at its very best. Especially the torches.

So that's what it was like a week ago when my co-worker, Shannon Sutlief, got robbed outside the Lakewood Minyard at Abrams and Gaston. Within a day we peasants and villagers were massed waving our torches angrily, but instead of rope soaked in pitch and wrapped on ends of tree branches, we had e-mail.

And here's the thing: This is a co-worker I'm writing about. Sutlief is editor of the Night & Day section of this newspaper. I would expect you to take what I say with a grain of salt, since I work with the person involved. Fine with me. Take the whole shaker.

And by the way, everything my co-worker says, Minyard sort of denies. I will get to that. Minyard has its own official story about how dialing 911 to help my co-worker was too complex a task for its entire staff working together on the problem at the Lakewood store that night, and I want to be very fair and objective about reporting that. I mean, what were the authorities thinking when they set up a system in which people have to dial three numbers in a row in order to fetch the gendarmes? But we'll get to that. Here's what happened, according to Sutlief, a 28-year-old Observer-American female:

It was just after 7 on a Wednesday evening and dark outside. She was getting ready to move to a new apartment and had a sudden need for plastic bags and packing tape. The closest big store was Minyard.

She pulls onto the lot in her black Mitsubishi Eclipse and picks a parking spot right in front of the main door beneath a light pole. Goes in. Gets her stuff. Swipes her credit card to pay at 7:20 p.m. Walks outside with three plastic bags of stuff on her left arm and car keys in her right hand.

"I'm almost up to my car, and this SUV pulls between me and my car. They were going really fast." She didn't know the make. "Silver, shiny, small, kind of boxy. It looked like it had just been driven off the showroom floor."

So she figures it's a bad driver. There were three young men in the car.

"I think nothing of it," she told me. "But then as I am opening the door, getting in the car, this guy behind me says, 'I have a gun, give me your purse.' I get out of my car, turn to face him, look down and see the gun. He steps closer with the gun and says, 'Give me your purse.'"

Sutlief was giving me the polite version. The police report states: "Suspect then placed gun in complainant's stomach and said, 'Give me the fucking purse.'"

"He was very young," she told me. "A baby-faced guy."

The kid with the gun yanked her purse from around her neck because she wasn't moving fast enough, knocking her off balance. Then he demanded her car keys. Sutlief had just finished putting $2,600 into the Eclipse for a new transmission.

"I said, 'Please don't take my car. Please let me keep my keys. I just got it back, and I won't have a way to work.'"

Exactly what everybody tells you not to do. But guess what? The kid got confused. There was some scrambling around about the keys. He jumped back in the SUV and took off without them.

Now we get to the bad part.

"I dropped my groceries on my car hood and ran into the store. The first person I see that works there is the lady who had just been my cashier. I stop her and say, 'I have just been robbed in the parking lot at gunpoint, and I need to call 911.'

"She just looks at me. I repeat myself. She says, 'You're going to have to talk to Violet.' She points at this lady called Violet. She's with a cashier at one of the cashier stands. I run over to her and say, 'I was just robbed at gunpoint, and I need to call 911.'

"She points to the customer service desk and says, 'It's over there.' I run over there, and she's behind me. But she's not running with me. She's walking toward me. She opens the gate into the service desk, picks up the phone and hands the receiver to me. She says, 'Who do you want to call?'

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Jim Schutze has been the city columnist for the Dallas Observer since 1998. He has been a recipient of the Association of Alternative Newsweeklies’ national award for best commentary and Lincoln University’s national Unity Award for writing on civil rights and racial issues. In 2011 he was admitted to the Texas Institute of Letters.
Contact: Jim Schutze