The Night Guardian

We called him Tom Jim. This may not have been his real name, but he responded to it nonetheless, both separately and together. The night guardian of Tang’s Donut Shop, its ever present watcher, his eyes permanently hidden behind a pair of BluBlockers. 

Or he worked the counter. 

Or he did not work there at all.

The truth, much like his name, was never really clear. What was clear was that Tom Jim was always there, always yelling at the family that owned the place, always referring to the family patriarch as “grandma,” with his Batman cap and windbreaker permanently on, no matter how cold or hot the evening was, presumably to strike fear into the hearts of would be criminals.  

Tom Jim’s speech was slow and determining, often pausing mid-thought as he mulled over his next word, which would be delivered with a low, guttural echo  that resonated from the depths of his throat. 

Talk of the past was not a common occurrence, but when spoken of, it was often contradictory. He once claimed to live with his father and that his father was continually stealing his money. On another occasion he informed us that his father had been dead for years. We also learned the Tom Jim was scared of the dark. 

One night we headed out to Tang’s. There was police tape strewn about and bullet holes in one of the glass windows, so of course we went in. Tom Jim was behind the counter, unshaken, serving the only customer aside from us. 

Raymond, my friend, walked up to the counter. Tom Jim eyed him up and down as if he had never seen him before. I thought Raymond was about to order. 

“What do you do if the lights go out?” Raymond asked. 

Raymond has long ago noticed the heavy duty flashlight hanging from Tom Jim’s right hip. The same one he patted at his side now, explaining without words his solution to darkness.

“What if the batteries run out?”

Tom Jim lifted his windbreaker, revealing another large flashlight affixed to his left hip.

“What if the batteries run out of that one?”

Tom Jim removed a smaller flashlight from an inner pocket of his jacket,

“And if that one dies?”

Reaching into his rear pocket, Tom Jim produced a fourth miniature flashlight.

“And if that one runs out?”

Unzipping his windbreaker, Tom Jim reached into his shirt pocket and produced a pen light, which he flashed toward us, before replacing it. 

I was about to ask a follow up, but Raymond pulled me aside. “This is as far as we go," he said, “some things are not supposed to be known.”