You know, I wasn’t always an insomniac. I was born in a small town. You can’t be one there, or else you’d go insane. Everything closes by ten. But in a city, now that’s where things go down, that’s where I can really breathe the night air. A city never sleeps, just the way I like it.

I was living in a studio apartment over a bar. It never closed until about four in the morning, so that may be the reason why I stayed up all night. Maybe it was because I slept through all my classes. I forget now. All I know is that I had dropped out of school and just bummed around the block all night long. I used to go to Boston College for journalism, but I figured if I wanted to do anything real I had to actually live my life.

My favorite hang-out had to be Store 24 on Beacon Street. Every single night it was the same middle-aged black man. He was graying at the temples, but I couldn’t figure out exactly what age he was. For all I knew, he either grayed early or he was in his ‘60s. I would just go there, buy a Laffy Taffy and an apple juice and watch the old fool do his work. I thought he was a little rude, because he never tried to talk to me.

I was mid-chew the night he first spoke to me. It was a simple “What do you want?”

He didn’t even look at me.

“Do you feel worthless?” I like keeping people on their toes. Their reactions, especially at night, can be quite priceless.

He turned, cocked his head and looked somewhat unsure. Then he smiled. “No worse than you, kiddo.”

“Really?” I asked, “Really? I’m not that young. I bet I could be your brother.”

“Oh really? You don’t look that old. What are you doing with your life?”

“I’m writing a book. I’m going to be famous one day.” He nodded, rolled his eyes and smiled, and I flicked him off and stormed out of there. Old people, they never had to go through the shit we had to.

The next night, despite swearing I’d never go back, I was at Store 24, sitting there with my Laffy-Taffy and apple juice. I was proud of my spontaneity and lack of routine. He was organizing the cigarettes behind the counter.

“Do you smoke those cancer sticks?” I asked. I had more of a edge to my voice than I intended.

He kept on working. I asked again, louder. He sighed, and looked at me over his shoulder. “No, I do not.”

“Well that’s good. I th—“

“However, I do enjoy a good cigar once in a while. Have you ever had one? It’s quite relaxing.”

I frowned, watching him move around behind the counter. He had interrupted me! What nerve. “Do you know what your problem is?”

“My problem? My problem?! Listen kid, you come in here pretty much every night, eating and drinking the same shit, and then you say something that you hope will make you sound intelligent, but makes you sound like an ass.”

“You don’t have to be so rude. Who do you think you are?”

He raised his eyebrows and leaned across the counter. “Me? Who do you think I am?”

I rolled my eyes. “An uneducated man, who wastes away his life working in a convenience store, making minimum wage to make ends meet.”

He laughed and shook his head. He told me he had his Ph.D. in biochemistry, got tired of the constant grant applications, and had semi-retired and owned the Store himself. “I actually applied for a position at Boston University. I’ll hear from them tomorrow.” He looked and smiled at me. “I miss it, you know.”

“Wow, great story. How much for the Slim-Jim?”

The old man shook his head and looked down. If I had known better, I would say he was biting his tongue. “A dollar sixty nine.”

I paid, opened it, and started eating, telling him how much capitalism sucked and how we should stick it to the man between bites. Meandering down the aisles, I told him how I was going to change the world. He went back to organizing cigarette cartons.

I was in the middle of my speech when the door opened. I was looking at the apple juice, pondering if I should buy another, when I heard them start arguing. Looking towards the counter, I saw a man in a black hoodie pointing a shotgun at the old man. He was looking at me, begging with his eyes. They were only about five feet away. My cell phone burned a hole in my pocket, screaming to be touched.

The gun went off. Red splashed the cartons. The man jumped the counter and began jamming money from the register into a bag and taking lotto tickets. He looked up and that’s when he noticed me. His cold brown eyes met mine, he looked me up and down, and continued doing what he was doing. Something warm and wet dripped down my leg. The man left without a word. The cops found me standing in the same spot.

What a hero I was. What a hero!

I didn’t even know his name.