The Brighter Side of Night

In an earlier post, I talked about how much the world caters to the day side workers. But to be honest, working nights does have some advantages too. There are fewer "suits" to deal with when you are working, since they are mostly all day people. The working environment is usually a bit more relaxed, and in many cases, you are in control. At least once a week, I am the only person in my department, which means I am my own boss, even though I really don't have anyone I'm supervising but me. There is truly freedom in that, but there is also periods of boredom. A large part of my job, especially on weekends, is waiting for things to break. As long as our systems are running well, there can be a lot of down time. The opposite side of that coin, is that when things do break, I have to have the confidence that no matter what happens, I am capable of fixing it, and fixing it fast. I work in a deadline oriented business, and the pressure is on every single day that our product MUST go out the door. There is absolutely no room for not accomplishing that task. I take that responsibility seriously.

And in talking to a lot of people who work similar shifts, they all agree that they do as well. There are rarely a lot of people to fall back on during the night shifts. The bulk of the brain trust has left for the day, and it is part of your job to do everything you know how to do to fix the problem before having to wake someone up at oh-dark-thirty.

Last night a small group of friends had an impromptu gathering over at my house after we had all gotten off work, or closed down some bar. I was talking with a bartender friend of mine about the best parts of working nights. She agreed that the freedom was a big draw. But another part of the conversation turned to the benefits of the night shift aside from the actual job. It went something like this:

LR: So, other than work, what is the best part of working the night vermin shift?
Her: Hmm... It would have to be the people.
LR: What do you mean?
Her: Well, the people who come in late to the bar, and the people who will hang out with you late are real. There is nothing fake about them. They are down to earth, and for the most part have a lot of common sense.
LR: Yeah, I would agree with that.
Her: I've worked the happy hour shifts a lot. There has always been something just a little fake about that crowd. They are out to impress, to hobnob with other yuppies, and to "network." Don't get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with making contacts, but .. I don't know...
LR: Yeah, like, you are never quite sure if this person is talking to me because he or she really wants to know me, or whether they are just trying to line up their next sale.
Her: Exactly.

Now, due to the drunken stupor we were all in by this time, I may not have the exact quotations down, but that was the gist of the conversation. And I did a lot of thinking about this today and have to agree, she's right. While there may not be a LOT of places you can go at this hour, the people you do run into truly are "real" people. They have their faults, but the vast majority of them are people who are thinkers and have a good grasp on their beliefs. They aren't afraid to take a stand on an issue. And even if you don't agree with their perspective, they are willing to let those differences be a part of your relationship, not a hindrance. And still buy you a beer.

There seems to be a lot of these little spontaneous gatherings at my house. Some consist of only a couple of close friends. Sometimes there can be 10 or 15 people show up. This particular crown was five. The conversations ebbed and flowed, ranging from Fidel Castro falling on his face to how good a cheap bottle of wine can be. Mixed in with this was a steady beat coming from the stereo, various times where someone would get up and dance for a while, a couple of games of darts, and then falling into playing Texas Hold'em with whatever change you had in your pocket. Poker then changed to Black Jack, when turned to Spades, and then finally, everyone was too drunk to deal the cards.

I love these little spur of the minute parties. There is never any planning involved. As I was leaving work, I told a couple of my best friends who I work with to drop by if they wanted. Once I got home, my phone rang, and a couple more people invited themselves over. I never know when it is going to happen, and sometimes I am too tired to accommodate them, and have to turn them down. I always feel bad when I do, because I know that it's just the night vermin wanting to blow off some steam and are looking for a convenient spot. Been there plenty of times myself. And if I do say no, there may be some initial whining, but generally, they all understand and never hold it against me. Because they know, next time they ask, I'll probably say yes.

I do try to say yes to these gatherings as often as I can because it is always a good time. It can get loud, it can get smoky, it can get really crazy sometimes. Sure, things get spilled, lamps knocked over on occasion, and someone might end up passing out and get a Sharpie taken to their face. Serves them right for passing out in front of a bunch of drunk Vampires (sleep all day, party all night, it's fun to be a vampire). I can usually count on at least one funny incident coming up during one of these. Last night was no exception.

Somewhere around 4am, we all decided we were hungry. Waffle House was the choice, and we started writing down the order. --interesting side note here, the Waffle House closest to us will not take call-in orders between 2am and 5am, I guess because too many of us drunk fucks call it in then pass out before we go pick it up-- Anyway, since I was the most sober one of the group, I had to go pick up this massive 10-pound order of hash browns, scattered smothered and covered, eggs, cheese and various other largely yellow tinted foods. As I'm carting in the three bags and a couple of coffees into the door, I look around the place, and people are laying all over the sofa and huge ass ottoman, when one of the guests shouts to me as I walk in, "LOOK WHAT WE FOUND WHILE YOU WERE GONE! WE'VE BEEN DOING SHOTS!"

And that is when I realized this was not going to turn out well. Held aloft like the Stanley Cup in a toothless hockey player's outstretched arm was my gleaming, now almost empty bottle of Kentucky's Finest Bourbon, Maker's Mark. No. Oh God, NO! In the forty minutes I had taken to drive my ass down to Awful Waffle, put in the order, and haul all this shit back, everyone there was now three-sheets-to-the-wind, shit house drunk. Off of bourbon. Off of REALLY FUCKING GOOD bourbon. One of these said participants in this debauchery was under 100 pounds. And I watched in both awe and horror as this petite thing uncorked the bottle, places it to her lips and turns it straight up. Then turn to me, wobbling just slightly and state quite matter-of-factly, "This is really smooth!"

Sigh. Slight shake of my head. And the only thought that went through my head was... well... guess I'll be holding someone's hair tonight. Fuck it, hand me my cheese steak omelet.

Peace.
LoRyder