Alter Influence

Alter Influence

         I spend my time writing.
         Every day before work I sit at the coffee counter in the local grocery store. I don’t drink coffee, but I order a white hot chocolate instead so I have the right to claim table space. I work the graveyard shift at a local radio station. Ten to six shifts incorporate my nocturnal lifestyle well, and a Monday through Friday work week leaves me with no life. It’s great. The small number of people with whom I intermingle are often drugged, drunk, or both, thereby making my dreaded encounters surreal and forgettable. 9:46pm. I depart the grocery store and saunter to work under the ambience of yellow parking lights.
         I like the dark because the daylight brings with it both light and people; two things I both hate and fear. I converse with only a few coworkers, but that’s because life necessitates it.
         I walk past a liquor store.
         A homeless man sits against the glass window front and looks at me, asking for change and committing a misdemeanor at the same time. No. The paroxysm of words in my head is more complex: I don’t drink, smoke, or do drugs and I don’t want to help you do them either. You don’t need them, and they are probably the cause of you current dismal state. Maybe I should give them a go sometime. Then I might pity you and want to help you, of course, I might end up being you, sitting there and asking for help. There’s always a brighter side though. Sure, you’re weak to try drugs the first time; to give into peer pressure or succumb to the emotional relief drugs offer, but to break free of the addiction you have to be stronger than when you started. So in a twisted way drugs can make you a better person. Maybe we all should do drugs. There’s always a way to justify anything, if you really want to. A creative mind can do that. That’s why I write.
         I passed video store, then the coffee shop. I enter through the side door of the station. Another eight hour shift. The clock displays 10:01pm which means I am right on time, but nobody clocks in the salaried employees. If I don’t show up I will be terminated, simple as that.
         The graveyard call screener doesn’t ever have many calls to answer, so I have nothing to do but sit and assail the world with sarcastic mental comments. The calls stop coming at about midnight, and the remaining time of my shift requires my skills no more than a few times, though several truck drivers used the restrooms throughout the night. The mexican is by the pay phone outside. I began to refer to it as his phone; he sleeps there every night. I don’t ever tell him to leave. I either don’t have the heart to or I don’t care.
         I brought with me a notebook, a candle, and a soda. I arrange my candle and notebook at one of the booths in the café area and sit down. The candle’s purpose is simply to make people question my sanity, and I like fire. When they see me writing by candlelight they leave me alone, except the freaks or the stupid ones. This explains why my candle provides light only. I don’t talk to people if I can evade it. My writing is conversation enough, and with my pen I can talk to anyone I want to.
         I start another story, or maybe a poem. It passes the time and keeps my mind at some level above unconscious. Someday I hope I am able to publish one or two good stories. And if I’m good enough I can suddenly stop publishing my work, and people will wonder what happened to such a talented writer. I’d be famous. A custodian enters the station and triggers the entry alert system. I vow to unplug the shrieking demon every time it goes off. I continue writing so I appear busy and shrug any potential interaction. That’s a good reason to write. I write all the time.
          “Burn my letter,” I mark with my pen. It’s a good intro line. Another custodian enters. He smokes cigarettes, and I make some smart comment about smoking’s health risks. Idiots. I muse over this thought as I return to my candle and my writing. I never know what to write. Often my pen makes a mere few sentences in the eight hours. I certainly have ideas, but they are mostly in the form of a single sentence, and there seems no point to a single sentence; not when there could be more. The thoughts in my head follow one after another, but none of them follow with purpose. They are not connected.
         Another person intrudes into my station.
          “Hello,” he says, nodding in my direction.
         I look up and smile, returning his nod in veiled threat.
         If I were witty my quips would save me from insanity borne of endless shifts spotted with dull interaction. None of my associates would get the humor anyway. I’m still not exactly sure how educated folks work after dark.
         Sometimes people offer legitimately engaging conversation. The dark hours bring out people from all areas of life, as long as those areas are somewhere far from normal. Some are too dumb to be allowed in public during the day, and others are recluse geniuses.
         I retreat to my desk and open my soda. I jump when the entry alarm sounds—I didn’t see him coming. I normally see the headlights. I look up and watch him move towards the stairs, but my motion catches his attention and he looks over. He looks surprised.
          “Oh, hello.”
          “Can I help you?”
          “So how are you doing?” He questions as if I knew him.
          “Umm.” I answer laconically and avoid further conversation. “Good.” I don’t ask him how he is doing. I don’t really care.
          “Good to hear.” He’s a talker.
         He leans over my desk and looks at my notebook. “Hmm… weird. Ok.” He leaves and climbs the stairs. He parked around the back of the station, which is why I didn’t see him drive up. I think he is one of the managers. I check the clock. 5:04am. I figure he is at the office early to get a head start on the morning program preparation.
         The next hour is silent, save for the paper man who refills the boxes out front, and the occasional, self-sufficient desk jockey. Aside from using the bathroom several times and moving around to assure any bystanders that I am in fact not dead, I move little. I don’t know what to write. I look at my notebook and find I have been writing the whole time. That’s always it, though, nothing to write. You’re reading it, and it’s supposed to make me a better writer.