Night

By M. J. Adams

You can't see the stars in the city. I can't, at least. I hear they call it light pollution. I call it a damned shame. It banishes the beauty from the city night.

I walk to my job from my apartment and stare up at the sky, hoping to see something new. All I see is an orange haze. I sigh in frustration, and turn my attention to my feet, kicking pebbles as I shuffle along the sidewalk. The city blocks pass by, the street lights reflecting off the street. A recent rain has dampened everything, leaving its signature scent and adding a sheen to the city surfaces. I suppose someone from the country may call it beautiful, but I call it plain old average. I see this every night. This is my life. The sky is clear now, but I can't see anything.

It's quiet. I've grown accustomed to the sounds of a the city night. On some nights, the sounds of sirens, music or shouting dominate this neighborhood, but not tonight. There is the ever-present throbbing of a city - a sort of distant airy roar - but the sound of my own footsteps and the occasional passing car are the only sounds my ears really notice. I see a stray cat darting into an alley, but I ignore it. I've seen him here before. This is his territory, just as it is mine. It's familiar ground for both of us.

I arrive at work to a nod or two. I recognize the faces, but most of us don't know each other well. People aren't meant to work the night shift. Eternal darkness in life breeds no light in the soul. I won't say that the mood here is always bad, but the friendly warmth in people dies away with the warmth of the sun. I push open the double doors which lead into the back room and I walk to where I store the floor waxer. This is what I do. I wheel it out onto the produce aisle. It smells green and fresh here, like a little bit of countryside is trapped in each vegetable and fruit. I take it in. I won't be out for a while. I adjust the automatic sprayer above the iceberg lettuce. It's left a puddle on the floor. someone probably bumped it while trying to get to the fresher lettuce at the back of the display. This aisle is always messy. People are always knocking fruits and vegetables onto the ground, grinding them into the tiles with their shoes. I always start here, so I can get the worst part of the night's work done.

The music here is horrible. Most of it is drowned out by the droning of the floor waxer, but what I can barely hear now is a repeat of what I've barely heard for the past month. It's one of those royalty free subscription deals which almost seem designed to torture and demoralize employees. I move onto the next aisle, dragging the long orange extension cord behind me. Sometimes I lose control of the waxer on turns like this, and it hits the shelves. I'm careful tonight. I don't want to hassle around with broken jars and dented cans. I don't feel like cleaning anything up tonight. I just want to get in and out, to do my job just as I always have.

After waxing and buffing a few aisles, I make my way to the back room and take my break with Jack. He's smoking outside the back door, looking at the city. I don't smoke anymore, but I join him. The view isn't great from here, but there is a little breeze and some different sounds. Getting away from the music is always good. I sip my water as we stand in silence. We've talked so many times that we've run out of things to say. We don't have much in common, but Jack is a good guy with a nice family. I don't think he planned this life or this job, but neither did the rest of us. I hope he gets out of here someday.

I spend the rest of the night working through the aisles slowly but surely, the old machine creaking and whirring, speaking to me in tongues I've come to know with time. I don't like this job, but there is no stress. Nobody tells me how to wax the floor. Nobody bothers me, because I work on my own. I don't have any responsibility. Unfortunately, there is also no progress, challenge, or passion. It can get lonely at times. There are plenty of other people here, but there is no interaction between me and the rest of the store while I'm working.

I exist only to the machine I manipulate through the aisles, avoiding the floor displays and clearing the tiles of the grey-brown grime of the day. The rows of packaged goods become a multicolored blur without meaning, fading into my peripheral vision. I focus on the whirling pad against the floor, sweeping it gently to and fro with a twist of the handle. It's all in the wrist, like buttering toast or playing table tennis.

The night is getting old. I'm finishing up my work here, as I always do. I end in the baked goods section. It's always empty at night. No fragrances of freshly baked bread make their way to my nose. The stuff left here is hard, stale, and will be thrown out in the morning. The few late night shoppers skip this section, sticking mainly to the canned goods and frozen sections. They want something fast and easy, a home cooked meal without any effort involved. They aren't really living either. Everything is drained of color, feeling and life at this hour.

I stop the waxer and look around, inspecting my work. I walk through the aisles to make sure I've buffed every surface properly. Satisfied with the results, I walk back to the last aisle. I unplug the machine, wrap up the cord, and wheel it back to its resting place. I always wonder how many times its been used. Who used it first? Who used it before me? Who will use it after? How long will this old thing be here? Will it outlast all of these employees?

I go to the front and stand by the door. The sun will be up soon. Jack is there, looking out of the window. He's waiting for his ride. Sometimes he asks me if I need a lift but I always tell him I'll walk. I always need some fresh air after being cooped up in here, and the walk between here and my apartment is the only exercise I ever get.

We stand together for a while, watching the day's new light coming up on the far horizon. Finally, he breaks the silence. "See you tomorrow night?" I shake my head no. "Today is my last day," I tell him. "I'll probably see you when I come to get my pay cheque." He just stands there, staring outside. He knows it's a lie. I've left the sleeping world, and I won't be back.

The sun has risen, the curving arc of its top now visible above the buildings in the distance. Stepping out into the light, I can just make out my wife and baby daughter in the distance. They've come to help me greet the day.