My phone buzzed next to my head and I became conscious again. My cats blinked and yawned, continued to gaze out the window at winter rain. I knew what this call was and at first did not want to answer because I was tired of no.
“You bitch.”
I picked up anyway and the message on the other side was like stumbling in the dark and seeing a candle in the distance. I remembered at once, the good and the bad from traveling through the dark. Not quite recovering from the Hades condition, but something else.
“Hey baby doll. What are you up to?”
“Good morning Caycep! How are you?” These HR people. Always so goddamn cheerful.
Fuck. God. Why can’t they just email the rejection?
“You married? Does he love you?”
I sat up in bed as I considered everything, my cats chirping and purring at me. I looked at my bedroom, an explosion of clothes and books and papers that hasn’t been cleaned in ages.
“You gotta boyfriend, honey?”
Shiftwork isn’t entirely an artifact of globalization or rising demands for service in a 24 hour economy, although that’s a significant factor. Certain professions always lend themselves to nonstandard hours—emergency services, police, military, and certain aspects of service.
Sweetheart.
The forgotten innkeeper of the Gospels was probably your first encounter with a night auditor, which is what I’ve done professionally since 2002.
Baby.
A year and a half ago, I tacked on a second job with a library in the evenings, which meant I was awake from about 2pm to 8am the following day, almost every day for a year and a half. With my abundant free time, I added graduate school.
Honey.
My legs became shakey. I ended shifts vomiting, body turned to brittle wooden doll. But I refused to stay in hospitality. There must be some kind of way out of here.
“What does a guy have to do to get a blow job around here? Can you just fucking blow me and let me watch TV? That’s really all guys want in a marriage.”
“We’d like to extend you an offer…”
2AM. She’s screaming that I’ve denied her service. I explain I can’t serve alcohol anymore. I give the wide, customer service smile and of course it isn’t good enough. I find I smile a lot now, even if there is no reason to. I am tired of men especially telling me my smile needs to be bigger or nicer, sweetheart.
Hey baby, can I get a smile with that Coke?
“..to come and work for us in the science library…”
“Why is it so upsetting?” they ask. “They’re just trying to complement you.”
I can smell this man through the glass. Winter in Portland. Sea level cold. I can’t let him sleep in the lobby. The missions are full and closed. “YOU FUCKING FAT CUNT. I’LL WAIT HERE AND CUT YOU.”
The elevator full of blood. The coworker who snaped in my face. I was not fast enough. At first.
"...and we'd love to have you as part of the team."
The man on the other end of the line, his room number clear as day on the consol, and he threatened to kill me. I evicted him and the manager let him back in the hotel.
“Hey, you have a break soon, right?” “No?” “You can come to my room and hang out, yeah?” “No? But we could have some beers.” “Like twenty minutes, right honey?”
No more.
This is the last night.
//
My thanks to this community for your support and encouragement. Much love as always.