Confessions of a Till Monkey

Just a reflection on my job, and the recent changes in it.

 

        I work the graveyard shift. Already I can feel you rolling your eyes. We have many names. Vampires, Gargoyles, Night Owls. It wouldn't be so bad if on my days off, I didn't desperately grasp for the sunlight, leaving me tired and groggy for my midnight runs.

 

        But at the gas station, I'm in a completely different world. Gone are the sights and scents of reality, I am enclosed in a glass cage. Bullet-resistant, I'm often reminded as I perform small business transactions through a thick glass box with magnetic locks.

 

        No, I'm sorry. The bathroom is off limits between the hours of ten and six. It's for my safety, don't you know? I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but we don't serve coffee until six. It's for my safety, sir.. Yes, thank you sir, I'll be sure to mention that to my boss. No, I'm sorry sir. You'll have to bring that up with the Worker's Compensation Board. Two packs of Dunhills? Right away, and do you have a valid ID? Same to you, buddy! Have a good one.

 

        The voices are always different, but the sounds are the same. Ever since Grant's Law fell into the rulebook, things have changed. I used to see a vast array of characters come through. The retired surgeon who always asked for two plastic bags with his morning paper, who would greet me in a different language every time. The drug dealer up the street who had effectively gotten away with murder. The crackhead on the corner with two successful adult children who was desperately grasping for sobriety. The hooker who plied her trade for rent money rather than drugs with a strict rule of oral only who met a customer who made his own rules. The ex-RCMP diver who surfaced too fast who now wears a magnetic collar and claims the CIA has been extracting architectural ideas from his head since he was young. The prison guard who escaped from a mental institution after being committed for having a mental breakdown after running over and killing a thirteen year old girl. The man with the fourty-thousand dollar watch and expensive sports car who proudly displays his Mason ring and a lording sneer. The pothead grandmother who volunteers all her time to the church.

 

        The cast of characters I would meet in the course of a night astounded even me. Here, in front of me was a stage that Shakespeare had never dreamed of. A place where I could watch the players of reality go about their individual plotlines. I could watch them, study them. Learn from them.

 

        Once, I met a man with a knife. Our transaction was brief, but memorable. He produced a knife, and I produced some cash. I still remember the amount. Forty-five dollars, right out of the till. I guess that thief hadn't heard that gas stations tend to drop their money into a safe at night. It's safer.

 

        I've been insulted. I've been threatened, robbed, complimented, tipped, given numbers, fawned over and once I even locked up the doors and fucked a girl in the back room. That was an interesting night.

 

        But then some kid doing the same job as me got killed. Two teenagers had filled up with twelve dollars in gas, and decided to peel out rather than pay. A kid by the name of Grant de Patie tried to stop them. He stood in the path of the teenagers car, and was dragged underneath for two kilometers. Witnesses say they could hear his screaming from under the carriage of the teenagers car. By the time the police had followed the trail of blood and smeared gore, Grant de Patie was dead.

 

        Since that time, friends and families of Grant de Patie have been pushing for Grant's Law. A law that would introduce legislation that would require customers to prepay for their gasoline. In addition, gas stations would need to either hire a second graveyard shift worker, or close the store between the hours of ten and six.

 

        Guess what my store did?

 

        And now, gone are the characters that infested and entertained me. Gone is the retired surgeon, the dealer, the crackhead. Gone are those I held dear, and those I deemed scum. There is silence in the store, and it's louder than the din of the coolers and air conditioners. Gone is the hooker, the mental patient, the ex-diver.

 

        And the silence expands.

 

        I must create my own characters now.

 

        I must write. And in the silence of the graveyard shift, I do.

Reviews

[L.M. Spurrell]

Wicked. Wicked-good.

[Dave Lounsbury]

Nice work, I've never worked that particular shift but you paint a very vivid picture with your words.
All work sucks, that's my theory.