The Night Man

Quite a while back, many, many years ago now, a new store appeared in my small hometown. Not just a new store: a new type of store—a type we’d never seen before. This store never closed. It had a name, but nobody ever used it. Everyone just called it the All-Night Store. I got a job there.

I got the job at the All-Night Store, despite my youth and my lack of experience in or any perceptible aptitude for retail, because I was willing to take the least desirable shift. It wasn't that others were afraid to take the “graveyard” shift, or that I wasn’t. The idea that working in a store, even late at night, might be a dangerous occupation wasn’t really a concept at that time, in that place. There was very little crime around there at any hour, and any violence beyond the odd drunken fight was practically unheard of. The last time any business in our town was robbed, it was the bank. The story was that it was John Dillinger, but it was really probably just some guy.

So it wasn’t fear or even mere caution that kept people from applying for that shift; it was just that people couldn’t grasp it. It took a wild leap to imagine keeping a store open all night in the first place. Even the streetlights went out at midnight, because why keep them on? A “night owl” was someone who stayed up until Johnny Carson was done. So a store open all night? Who would be your customers? No one but some kind of weirdo would want to go shopping at three o’clock in the morning.

Aha.

Down from the hills and up out of holes they came, drawn by the novelty of a lighted storefront, pallid or ashen gray, depending on the race. Only a few at first, looming up out of the shadowy parking lot in ones and twos, bumping against the windows like June bugs. They would carefully try the door as though expecting it to be locked, then ease inside as though expecting to be ordered out again. They would stand around blinking at the fluorescents for a while, then maybe buy a honey bun or a pack of cigarettes or, just as likely, simply use the toilet before staggering back out. Some I only saw once. But it didn’t take long before there was a crew of regulars.

I smiled, imagining what my mother and father would think had they seen some of the people I chatted with, there in the store all alone in the middle of the night, people whose real names I never learned, so I gave them names of my own. But they weren’t so bad. There was no real harm in Mr. Twitch and his frantic tales of being hounded by the Big Oil Companies over his gas-saving inventions. Sally Eyesockets was like something from a Big Daddy Roth cartoon, but she was pleasant enough. Burn Unit was disturbing to look at, but that wasn’t his fault. Who was I to judge, anyway? I was no prize myself, skinny and spotty, sitting there all alone every night, flipping through the dirty magazines kept behind the counter, or just listening to the radio, staring into space.

At some point, I realized that I actually liked the town better when the regular people were locked away. It was peaceful. My new comrades never hassled me, never asked a lot of questions about what I was going to do with my life. Bottom line: I liked my job.

Until I didn’t.

It was a Friday night/Saturday morning. It was May, and the nights had started to warm up. This had led to a general rise in business over the past week or so, but on this particular night, the place was pretty much dead. That might have been because of the threatening weather; there was a big storm approaching from the west. I had my cheap AM radio on the counter, tuned to the Beaker Street show out of Little Rock. Every time lightning flashed, static rose up to drown out Deep Purple or Jethro Tull.

Along about twelve-thirty, headlights swept the store. A few moments later, a recent classmate of mine, J.D., came in. J and D were not his initials. That is, they did not stand for his real name; they stood for his nickname. Or rather, they were his nickname. He was a very large fellow who was prone to becoming dangerous when angry (and sometimes when not), and so somebody started referring to him as the “Incredible Hulk.” A number of the kids were from farm families, so at some point, because the initials of “Incredible Hulk” were I and H, and someone joked about this fellow being the size of a combine, the “Incredible Hulk” nickname changed to “International Harvester.” But “International Harvester” doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, plus John Deere was the more popular farm implement company in the area. Also, John Deere equipment is green like the Incredible Hulk. So his nickname became “John Deere,” which was quickly shortened to “J.D.”

As with so many things in the teenaged mind, it was all perfectly logical and made absolutely no sense. His real name was Charlie Bingham.

J.D. stopped just inside the door and looked around, blinking in the glare of the lights like many first-time visitors. Unlike most of the others, his gaze stopped on me and, after a moment of slow, dazed recognition, he smiled. It wasn’t a friendly or a warm kind of smile. It was more like a “well, would you look at this shit” kind of smile. In fact, it was exactly that kind of smile, because after a moment he said, “Well, would you look at this shit!”

“Hey, Charlie,” I said. Nobody called him “J.D.” to his face.

“What the hell are you doing here?” What he really meant was, “What are you doing anywhere?”

I made a kind of shrug/wave gesture and looked down at my stupid red vest and name tag. “I work here,” I said.

He laughed and shook his head as though me working there was one of the more astonishing pieces of news he was likely to run across this year. He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets—he was wearing his high school letter jacket—and reached the counter in three strides. “Shit, man, I thought you left town!”

I seriously doubted that J.D. had given any thought to my whereabouts at all, but I smiled and gave another shrug. “Naw,” I said. “Still here.”

He rolled back on his heels and waved his open jacket around with his pocketed hands like stubby wings. I realized that he was at least half drunk, and this worried me. It was hard to imagine J.D. being any kind of drunk other than mean. “Still here! Shit!” He laughed a fairly benign-sounding laugh. “And working at the All-Night Store!”

“Yep,” I said. He laughed again and shook his head some more, setting his black curls to shaking. I suppose that J.D. had been out of school just long enough and had had just beer enough to get all nostalgic. He apparently remembered me as an old school pal, although about the only interaction we’d ever had was him calling me something like “shitbird” and slapping the hell out of me.

“Well, storekeeper,” he said, and slapped the counter in front of me, “how about a package of Marlboros?”

“O.K.,” I said and turned to get them out of the case behind me. He was probably old enough to buy cigarettes; he’d been kept back a couple of times. I sure as hell wasn’t going to quiz him about it. I was fairly certain he lifted something from the counter while my back was turned—key ring or Moon Pie or something—but I paid a very deliberate no attention. I laid the package of cigarettes in front of him.

His smile vanished. “I get the old buddy discount, don’t I?” I began to mumble something about how they count all the money against the receipts, and about how if it was only up to me, but he interrupted with another loud laugh. “I’m just messing with you!” he said and put down a five. I got him his change and quickly slammed the register before he got any ideas about the cash drawer. He pocketed his change and turned to survey the store, tearing into the cigarettes, dropping the cellophane on the floor. “Quite a place you got here,” he said and pulled a plastic lighter out of his jacket pocket. That solved the mystery of what he had lifted from the counter.

“Well,” I said, “it ain’t mine.”

He spun around and looked at me with one squinty eye, lit his cigarette, and pointed at me with the hand still holding the flame. “Play your cards right, bud!” he said. “You just hang in there and play your cards right!” He put the lighter away, blew out a laugh-filled cloud of blue smoke, and started for the door. “Hey!” he said suddenly and turned back. “You know Cindy Maxwell, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” I said. She was the Methodist preacher’s daughter.

“Fixin’ to go slip her the high hard one!” He grinned around his cigarette.

What does one say to news like that? Congratulations? J. D. and Cindy Maxwell was certainly not a pairing I would have predicted, but as a guy who had spent a lot of time since the onset of puberty mystified by the choices females made (and by how none of those choices were ever me), nothing about the impenetrability of feminine taste shocked me anymore. And, of course, he could just be bullshitting. I smiled in what I hoped was a worldly way.

He guffawed at me. “Take it easy, dipshit!” he said.

“You too,” I said, then felt a stab of fear that he might think I was calling him a dipshit back. But he just waved a hand, slammed a shoulder into the door with more violence than was strictly necessary, and passed through the greenish glare of the lights over the sidewalk. Headlights swung backwards and were gone almost before the door had time to finish its slow swing shut. Before it closed, I heard the faint rumble of thunder.

Not too long after J.D. left, Fred and Ethyl came in. They belonged to the down-from-the-hills category of All-Night Store customer, Fred always wearing the same dirty overalls and blue cap, Ethyl always in one of two worn print sack dresses, her gray-brown hair frazzled and thin on top. They came in about once a week, always after midnight, and always bought a couple of sacks of junk food. They would go about shoulder to shoulder, whispering to one another as they touched and lifted and hefted various bars and bags and bottles. They spent the greatest amount of time deliberating over the chips, and they invariably pawed around through all the shelves before settling on one bag or another.

I tallied up their junk as usual, and this time Ethyl was chatty. “Blowing up something out there,” she said. Fred nodded. We all looked at the front window. The sky flashed a little closer than it had earlier. Static buzzed loud on the radio, though I had turned the music down when they came in. A gust of wind sent an empty drink cup pirouetting across the parking lot just within the halo of the store lights.

“Guess so,” I said.

So much for conversation. They left, pausing outside on the sidewalk to look through their bags one more time, heads together, whispering, before walking off into the blackness. The thought ran through my head that maybe I would find a girl someday after all, as Fred and Ethyl seemed to confirm the old saying that there’s somebody out there for everybody. I turned the radio back up.

A few minutes later, as I was straightening the potato chip bags and Clyde Clifford was talking about some Little Rock record store, the radio fairly blasted out a roar of static, and I looked up, startled, only to be more startled to find a man at the front window looking in at me. I dropped a potato chip bag. Something about the way the man was standing there made me feel that he had been there a while, watching. When he saw me see him, his expression changed from whatever it had been to something benign.

He was an older fellow. His face was drawn and thin, his complexion sallow, and his longish hair was white but yellowing toward the ends like nicotine-stained fingers. He had a beard, also yellow-white, sparse and scraggly. He wore a dark, long coat that seemed a bit much for the early May weather. He flashed a smile full of teeth the same color as his hair and stepped toward the door, pausing just inside it, as the automatic closer slowly dragged it shut behind him. He carried a large, green suitcase.

“Good evening,” he said. He sounded like he needed to clear his throat, which made me have to clear mine before I could tell him hello back. He looked around the store, then back at me, something—amusement?—glinting in his eye. “You’re open late,” he said. I couldn’t identify his slight accent, but it definitely wasn’t local.

“Yes sir,” I said. “All the time. I mean, we’re open all the time. We don’t close.”

His eyes widened. “You don’t say! Open all night?”

“Yes sir.”

He looked around again. “Very convenient.” He smiled like he meant it this time, though the smile wasn’t any more pleasant than his first one. I saw that he had a gold tooth. “Quite often, a fellow realizes he needs something. All of a sudden. In the middle of the night.” He looked me up and down. “And you’re the Night Man,” he said, bestowing it upon me like a title.

“Yes sir,” I said. Well, mumbled.

“That’s fine. I’m a Night Man too!” That smile again, even bigger this time, even less pleasant, topped off with a wink.

He hadn’t said or done anything the least bit threatening, but for no reason that I can explain, I began to get scared. Nobody else who had come into the store had ever made me feel this way, not even Burn Unit the first time he appeared. I had a desperate, crazy urge to bolt to safety, like how a rabbit must feel when the shadow of a hawk flits over the grass.

I started toward the counter, trying not to seem in a hurry, then realized I still had an armload of potato chip bags. I pivoted and jammed them back into the rack, turned again and stepped on the bag I had dropped on the floor. I stooped and picked it up as I walked at what I hoped was a deliberate pace down to the end of the counter and through the little swinging gate. As soon as it smacked closed behind me, I felt relieved, which was silly, of course; it was just a little gate, and it was just a waist-high counter. But at least now I was in here and he was out there.

The man watched me quietly, still looking pleasant and still not doing anything the least bit threatening. “Nice to find somebody to talk to!” he said. “Out here in the Night, I mean.” Thunder boomed louder than ever, and he glanced at the front windows. “You don’t mind me pausing in here for just a while, do you?” I shook my head and made a stupid, make-yourself-at-home gesture, regretting now that I had told him the place was open all night. If I hadn’t, I could have said I was sorry, but we were just about to close.

Clyde was playing “Cindy’s Cryin’” (like he did every night), but the radio crackled again, louder than ever, and the static ate up the music. This time, the static didn’t go away. I turned the radio off, and everything got way too still. I couldn’t even hear the buzz of the ice-cream freezer, and I could always hear the buzz of the ice-cream freezer.

The man set his ratty suitcase carefully down on the floor in front of the counter and worked his fingers like maybe he’d been holding the handle a little too tightly for a little too long. On one of his fingers, I noticed a big gold ring with some kind of red stone. “I’ve heard about stores like this,” he said. “Stores that stay open very late. Down in Texas.” He turned and began to stroll back along one of the aisles, looking at the stuff on the shelves like a visitor to a mildly interesting local museum. His boots were caked with dried mud, and a chunk or two came loose onto the floor with every step. “Lots of things come crawling out of Texas to afflict the rest of the country,” he said. He picked up a box of candy and shook it. “Armadillos.” He held the candy box beneath his nose and sniffed. “Fire ants.” He prodded a bag of Boston-baked beans with one long, yellow finger. “Not to pick on Texas particularly. Spent a lot of time there myself.” He grinned at me. “Before I came crawling out.”

As he continued down the aisle, I looked at the green suitcase. It sat there on the floor in front of me like a dog set to watch me while its owner’s back was turned. It was filthy and stained along the bottom, as if it had sometime been set down in some dark liquid or maybe contained some dark liquid trying to soak its way out. The handle was wrapped with tape and blackened from handling; it had broken loose at some point and been re-attached with a chaotic coil of wire. I was somewhat amazed to find that I was even scared of the man’s luggage.

“Must get lonely in here, middle of the night,” he said. He stopped, turned, and looked at me over the shelves.

Clearly, he expected a reply. I said, “Sometimes.”

To my relief, he nodded and started moving again. “But you don’t mind it, do you?”

“No,” I said, “Not really.” How would he know what I minded or didn’t mind?

“You know how I know you don’t mind?” he asked, and I twitched a little. Could this fellow read minds? “It isn’t that I can read minds,” he went on with a chuckle, and this time, I jerked as though someone had poked me. “I’m just good at reading people. I’ve been studying people a long time.” He stopped, looked at me again, and flashed that gold tooth of his. “A long time.”

I had nothing to say to that.

He continued on his way, rounded the end of an aisle, and started back toward his suitcase and me, still studying the shelves. “Hey. I want to ask you a question,” he said. “Weird question. Hope it doesn’t ‘freak you out’.”

Too late, I thought.

“It’s something I like to ask some people. I compile the results. Research, you might call it.” He shrugged. “Or just a hobby.” He was back at the candy again and picked up the same box he had sniffed earlier. He sniffed it again. When he spoke now, it was absently, as though the subject was of no particular importance. “If somebody could tell you—never mind how…just hypothetically…if somebody could tell you when you were going to die—I mean, exactly when and exactly how—would you want to know?” He pulled open the flap on the candy box and peered into it. It was a box of Mike and Ike.

The wind, with perfect timing, chose that moment to gust strongly, and there was a hiss as a gravelly puff of dust scratched against the front windows. The door was sucked outward a couple of inches and thumped closed again. The man snaked a long, yellow finger into the candy box, hooked out a couple of pieces, popped them into his mouth. He looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “Hmm?”

“I, uh…I don’t…I don’t really…”

“I know!” he said around the candy. “I know! Tough question.” He started walking toward me again. I could not stop myself from taking a step backward, but he halted next to his suitcase and came no closer. “I’m particularly curious about your answer, though,” he said, digging more candy out of the box. “Young man like you must have different ideas about death than older folks do. Old farts like me.” He grinned, yellow teeth now reddened by the candy. “See, I have observed something. In my ‘research.’ Want to know what?” I most assuredly did not. “I’ve found that the younger someone is, the more likely he is to say yes. I think that’s because the younger you are, the further off death seems to be. What are you, for instance? Eighteen? Nineteen? So many years ahead of you. Fifty. Sixty. More, maybe.” He shook his head slowly and his eyes for a moment seemed to take on a shine that seemed almost hungry. “Sure, says the youth,” he said, louder now, “go on! Tell me, why not? It’s off somewhere in the distant future! Like science fiction. Flying cars.” He chuckled. “To you, I guess death is like flying cars. Moon rockets! Oh! Not those. I guess we got those now!”

For some reason, he thought that was pretty funny. His shoulders shook with quiet laughter as he knocked out a pile of Mike and Ikes into one dirty palm and slapped them into his mouth. “So,” he went on, his voice gooey with the candy, “What about it? Would you want to know? Hypothetically?” The last word sent a little chunk of goo flying out onto the floor in front of him. I had been standing almost hypnotized, but for some reason that seemed to bring me back to myself. I had to mop that floor. All this creeping around, asking weird questions. And now hocking on my floor? Who did he think he was, anyway?

“Nobody with any sense would want to know that,” I said, surprised at the strength of my own voice.

He raised his eyebrows, smiled, and went on chewing his gooey Mike and Ikes. He seemed impressed by my reply, or maybe I imagined that. In any case, he stood there regarding me until I began to feel more uncomfortable than ever. “Fair enough,” he said at last. Then he took another step forward, and I took a corresponding step back, bumping into the magazine rack behind me. “Robert,” he said, “or Bobby? You strike me as a ‘Bobby.’” For a moment, I was taken aback. How could he know my name? Then I felt foolish. I was wearing a name tag. Again not waiting for an answer, he leaned forward onto the counter, his bony shoulder blades scissoring up as his elbows struck the surface. “Bobby,” he said, “I can tell you your future.”

“Huh?” I said. My mouth had gone dry.

“Not what we were just talking about!” he said, waving a hand. “I couldn’t know that, now could I?” His smile was not reassuring. “Nah. Of course not! But I do know something that will happen to you. Because it happens to everybody. If they live long enough.” He began fiddling idly with the stuff on the counter. Poking this item, slightly realigning that.

“There will come a time, at a certain age,” he said, and he sounded like someone beginning a speech he’d given before. “Not sure exactly what age. It varies. But it will come.” He tapped at the key rings on a cardboard display, swinging them this way and that on their little hooks. “There will come a time when you’ll be reading a newspaper or watching the television, or not really doing much of anything, and a thought will pop into your head. Maybe something on TV calls it up. Or whatever. Anyway, there it is. It’s the kind of thought you’ve had lots of times before, and it starts with, ‘One of these days I’m gonna...’ Or maybe, ‘You know, when I get around to it, I...’”

He took one of the key rings off the display. It was a little fake leather fob with a metal Mercedes logo on it. As if anyone who came into this store would ever own a Mercedes. He looked up at me again. “And,” he went on, “you will have a sudden realization.” His eyes widened theatrically and he made a kind of “ta da” gesture. “Clear as crystal and indisputably true. Obviously true, like ‘water is wet’ or ‘things fall down.’ The realization is that this thing you just thought of—whatever it is, big or small, important or trivial…visit the Grand Canyon, say. Learn Spanish. Sleep with a redhead.” He spun the keyring on a finger. “Drive a Mercedes. Whatever. Something that’s maybe been in the back of your mind for years. Nothing you obsessed over. Just something that you always figured maybe you’d get around to doing. One of these days. The realization that you have in that moment is the fact that this thing, whatever it is, is never going to happen. Never.” He intoned the last word solemnly. He slowly hung the keyring back on the display. “In that moment, the thing goes from possibility to impossibility just like flipping a switch.” He leaned on both elbows and regarded me with a sad smile. “Then you’ll start to think of other things. Lots of things. All things that you sort of thought you might get around to one of these days. But now you know—you know!” His smile became even sadder and he shook his head. “Never gonna happen. Never. Why?” He gave a little shrug. “No time. You’ll die first.”

We stood and looked at one another. He gave another little shrug. “Pretty grim, huh?” he said, and I nodded. “But wait!” he cried, and his hand whacked the countertop. I jumped and stumbled back against the rack again. “What if there was a way to avoid that?”

Almost as if the slap had caused it, a flash lit us up like someone had taken a picture, and a deafening crack of thunder roared out from what sounded like just overhead. The fluorescent lights flickered. I looked to the front window and saw a wall of pelting rain come sweeping across the parking area. The storm had finally arrived. The sound of the rain on the roof rose to a roar. The old man didn’t seem to notice. His candied grin was bigger and redder than ever. “Do you want to know,” he said loudly, over the noise, “how you can avoid that depressing moment awaiting you off in your old man, science fiction future?”

I looked from him to the deluge pouring outside, and back to his pale face. His eyes were shining with mischief. “I guess so,” I said. I knew he was going to tell me anyway. His grin widened, and I realized that I was about to receive the punchline.

“Die young!”

He slapped the counter again and began to laugh as though he had told the finest joke in the world. I did not join in, but that didn’t seem to affect his own enjoyment. After a while, he stood up straighter and the laughter began to die down. He wiped his eyes and got himself under control. Then he went very still and stared at me silently for a moment. “Or,” he said, his voice quieter now, “have someone else do it for you.”

What was that supposed to mean? He did not appear inclined to clarify. “Why, Bobby!” he said, making a facetious show of straightening his coat, brushing off his sleeves. “Where are my manners? I haven’t even properly introduced myself. The name is Darius.” He stuck out his right hand. “Like the Persian King.” His hand hung there in the air between us like a disembodied thing, floating in space. The red stone on the ring on his finger glinted.

Of all the things in my life that I have ever not wanted to do, I never didn’t want to do anything as much as I did not want to touch him. But the thing is, about the most insulting thing you can do to a man short of spitting on him is refuse to shake his hand. Against my will, the irresistible force of my social programming lifted my arm like the string of a marionette, and I reached across the counter.

A bright light struck my eyes, and I snatched my hand back.

Turning away from the outstretched hand felt like coming up after diving into deep water. I literally gasped for air. I looked back at the old man and saw that his demeanor had changed. He didn’t look cheerful or benign anymore. It was as if he had been interrupted in the act of something, and he was pretty annoyed about it. But in the act of what?

I heard raised voices outside, and the slamming of doors. A car had pulled into the lot. A figure appeared, hurrying up to the front doors. It was a girl. She yanked at the door, her hand slipping off the handle in the first attempt, sending her stumbling backwards. The second try got the door open and she hurried inside. Even the short run from car to door had left her soaked. The light-colored fabric of her dress was darkened at the shoulders, and her hair hung down over her face. She stopped a few steps into the room and hugged herself, looking around. Another shape loomed up out of the rain and yanked the door open. This one I recognized right away. It was J.D.—Charlie Bingham. “Hey!” he yelled. “Wait a minute!”

Now I recognized the girl. It was Cindy Maxwell, the Methodist preacher’s daughter. She didn’t look back at J.D. She quickstepped up nearer the counter, still hugging herself. She didn’t look up, either at me or the old man. “Do you have a restroom?” she said, her voice tight.

“Uh…yeah.” I pointed. “In the back.”

She nodded once and, still not looking up, hurried off.

“Hey!” J.D. shouted after her. “What are you—” As Cindy disappeared around a row of merchandise he threw up his hands. “Shit!” he snapped, sounding as much disgusted as angry, then, almost under his breath, “Stuck up little bitch!”

I was so taken aback by all this drama that I had nearly forgotten about the old man. Now he stepped into my peripheral vision. He was looking at J.D. That bemused look of his had returned. J.D. looked out the front window at the rain for a moment and ran his fingers through his wet hair. “Shit!” he said again, and when he turned back he seemed to notice the two of us for the first time. He frowned at the old man. “What are you looking at?” he growled.

The old man turned, looked at me, and his face slowly broke into a smile. The smile broadened until I could once more see the gold tooth. I must have been gazing back with bovine stupidity. He gave J.D. a sidelong glance and his smile widened even more. To my amazement, he gave me a wink, as though we were sharing, or were about to share, a clever joke.

“Hey…dipshit,” J.D. snarled—he’d clearly forgotten my name. I tore my gaze from the old man and looked his way. “You sell beer in this place?” I mumbled something about a dry county. J.D. walked around in a tight circle, spat in the direction of the wastebasket near the door. “Some fucking night,” he growled.

“One disappointment after another, eh, friend?” The old man was standing near his battered suitcase now, and with one foot he gave it a little nudge, turning it ninety degrees. Its narrow end swung away from the counter and me and toward the doors and J.D.

“What?” J.D. squinted at him.

“Led you on. Am I right?” the old man said, and he ambled closer to J.D. “Gave you every reason to believe she would do…certain things, but when it came right down to it, she balked.” J.D. seemed torn between hostility and confusion. “That’s enough to rile up any young man,” the old man went on sympathetically, and he moved even closer. “How young are you, by the by? Twenty or so?”

“What?” J.D. said again. The old man’s approach seemed to unsettle him. For once, I could sympathize.

“Fifty years,” the old man murmured, gazing at J.D.’s face. “Sixty. Maybe more.”

J.D. looked at me and jerked a thumb. “Who is this asshole?” I just shook my head.

“Why, that’s right,” said the old man more loudly, straightening and smiling broadly. He stepped right up to J.D. I wanted to yell at him to watch out, that he didn’t know who he was messing with, but I couldn’t speak. “Where are my manners? The name is Darius. Like the Persian king.” He stuck out his hand.

J.D.’s face darkened and he clenched his teeth. “Go fu—” he began, and he struck out to slap the hand away. As quick as a striking snake, the old man caught J.D.’s hand and yanked it, pulling him off balance. Suddenly, the two men were nose to nose, eye to eye.

J.D. looked shocked, and I was almost as shocked as he was. He looked into the old man’s eyes. His eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I couldn’t see what he saw, but whatever it was caused his furious expression to melt. He tried to pull away, but the old man held him fast. The two stumbled in unison one step one way and two steps in the other, as though launching into a waltz. Then J.D.’s expression twisted into full-on terror, as though he had found himself locked in an embrace with something rotting and putrid. He struggled to pull loose, and the two wrestled for another moment before J.D. let out a loud, anguished cry, and the old man released him, sending him staggering back against the front window.

All the color had drained from J.D.’s face. He stared wild-eyed for a moment, then looked at the hand the old man had gripped. Without another word he spun, shoved the doors open, and ran out. The car roared into life, and the headlights swung out and away. The car took off so fast, it sent pea gravel peppering the front windows like birdshot.

The old man turned back toward me. Something about him had changed. He stood straighter. His eyes had darkened somehow. I can’t explain it. He strolled back over and stood in front of the counter. “Enough excitement for one night, yes?” he said. His voice was deeper, quieter, less strident than before. “Oh! What do I owe you? For the candy?” The open box of Mike and Ike lay on the counter where he’d dropped it. I shook my head, waved my hand. I wasn’t going to touch his money.

“Thanks. Very generous,” he said, pocketing the candy, and he turned and picked up his suitcase. “I’ll be wandering on, then.” He looked at the front windows. The rain seemed to have slackened somewhat. “Still coming down a bit, but…” that grin again, “I’m not made of sugar.” He walked over to the doors, pausing with his hand on the handle. He looked over his shoulder. “I’m glad it worked out this way. I like you.” He looked around the store, as though he wanted to remember how it looked, then back at me. “Have a good life, Night Man,” he said. “Can’t wait for those flying cars, eh?” He pushed the door open and walked briskly out, laughing, into the rain and the dark.

I stood looking out after him. I don’t know how long. When a voice said, “Is he gone?” I jumped and almost cried out. I had completely forgotten about Cindy Maxwell. She stood over near the doors to the restrooms, somewhat drier, somewhat less bedraggled. It took me a moment to realize that she only meant J.D.

“Yeah,” I said. “Gone.”

She walked over closer to the counter. She’d been crying, and it looked like she might not be done yet. “Oh my God,” she moaned. “How will I get home?” The pleading in her eyes was easy enough to read, even for someone as generally clueless as me.

Of course, I couldn’t take her home. This was the All-Night Store, and I was the Night Man. Nevertheless, I took off my stupid vest and dropped it on the floor. I couldn’t lock the store up. There was no key, as the doors were never locked. So I just scrawled “CLOSED” on a piece of cardboard, stuck it on the door, and turned out the lights. People around there were pretty honest. Nobody would loot the place. Probably.

All the way to her house, Cindy Maxwell excoriated J.D. and expressed deep regret at the rebellious streak that had led her to sneak out to go riding with him in the first place. She’d learned her lesson, she assured me. No more riding around alone with guys. Which I guess meant she didn’t even think of me as a guy. When she thanked me for the ride, I could tell she didn’t remember my name. Maybe I shouldn’t have discarded the nametag.

When I got up the next morning, I heard the news. Late last night, Charlie Bingham, J.D. to his not-so-friends, driving way too fast as was his habit, had lost control on the wet road and run straight into an oak tree. He was killed instantly. Even though he wasn’t exactly loved in the community, there was still great regret. So young. So many years lost.

If they were lost. And not…I don’t know…reallocated.

As might be expected, abandoning my post did not go over well with the management, when they learned of it from the lady who showed up that morning to relieve me. Losing the job did not disappoint me too much. I’d had a definite change of attitude toward working all alone late at night.

I eventually did find a girl who would pay attention to me. A surprisingly nice girl! We have two kids, three grandkids. I’m an old guy now, a long, long way from that spotty dork in the All-Night Store. I’ve had a pretty good life. No serious regrets. I can see the end of my run, and I’m OK with it. Lately, though, I’ve been thinking. Thinking about a certain someone out there…out there in the Night. Is he ready to go yet? What if he isn’t? That troubles me a bit.

That, and the fact that I never got my flying car.