A Passing Relationship with the Great Scareball in the Sky

Unless you’ve worked the graveyard shift like I have for the past 12 years, you are probably unaware that there is a whole other civilization out there, right under your nose. If you are even remotely cognizant of our existence, you probably think we make big money, but I’m here to tell you that most of us don’t. We’re the people who come out after you’re long asleep and do the things you don’t want to do. Without me opening that drawbridge on the intercoastal waterway, though, interstate maritime commerce would come to a grinding halt. You wouldn’t want that, now, would you?

And then while you are awake and going about your daily business, we’re most likely at home, behind blackout curtains, desperately trying to sleep, and cursing the fact that your daily business seems to make so much freakin’ noise.

There are approximately 15 million of us in America, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics. We tend to be loners, because social butterflies don’t last long in our world, as friends who want to spend time with us soon realize that it’s a logistics nightmare, and the odds of meeting new people are slim at best. Dating? Forget that. Who’d put up with our schedule?

There are all sorts of statistics about graveyard shifters. I read somewhere that we tend to have 42 percent more traffic accidents than the general population. I can believe that. I’ve woken up at stop lights on too many occasions to deny the possibility. Our health is severely affected as well, in the form of restlessness, fatigue, decreased attention and disruption of the body’s metabolic process.

Studies have been done about the disruption in circadian rhythms, and how it impacts cognition and makes us more vulnerable to disease. I know for a fact that my brain function is impacted because when I take a vacation and switch back to a normal schedule, it’s as if my mind comes out of a fog.

I’m quite sure I accomplish much less at home than the average person, because my whole reason for being has become the desperate pursuit of sleep. I can’t remember the last time I got more than 5 hours of sleep at a stretch. Something always disrupts my efforts. If it’s not the phone, it’s garbage pickup. If it’s not garbage pickup, it’s a lawnmower. If it’s not a lawnmower, it’s the Jehovah’s freakin’ Witnesses, who tend to get a reaction that they haven’t counted upon. Dogs barking. Construction work. And at my last address, I swear to God, the local high school marching band used to practice in the park across the street. That was when I began to understand why people become so attached to their assault weapons.

Working the graveyard shift has changed me. I’m afraid I’m going to turn into one of those cranky old women who refuse to let the neighborhood kids retrieve their basketballs from the back yard. But at least I have come by it honestly. So if you see me, looking pale and unhealthy, squinting at the big scareball in the sky, please be kind. I’m just a tourist in your world, and I barely speak the language anymore. I’m just happy to have a job.