Shift Change

A narrative about what happens at shift change one day.

8:13am, Saturday March 17, 2007

 

It's tough to get to sleep right after a 12-hour shift. I need time to decompress.

 

Thing is, there's no place to do that here.

 

I trudge through the lobby of the building and up the marble staircase. The railing is gone, so I walk close to the wall. The steps break apart under my feet, making a familiar crunching sound.

 

I drop my gear in my room. Forty pounds lighter, I shuffle back to the top of the staircase and sit down.

 

I light a cigarette.

 

This is as good as it gets. From 25 feet above I watch the men downstairs drink coffee and shuffle papers. They mill about, seeming unsure of what they're doing. My legs dangle over the edge of the stairs.

 

I pull a piece of paper from my pocket. It's a letter I got from my wife a week ago. I read the whole thing just to get to the bottom where she's written,

 

"Come home safe!"

 

I read that several times, knowing there will be too many long days like this before I'll see her.

 

Suddenly I hear voices below me. A man elbows his way into the lobby. He's screaming, and the coffee drinkers run from him, scattering like young girls being chased by a boy with a worm.

 

He's wearing a thick vest, and he holds something in his right hand.

 

I know exactly what he's doing. I drop my cigarette and my wife's letter. They begin to float down to the floor of the lobby.

 

"Allah akbar!" he screams, and then, squeezing and shaking the item in his hand, shoots his arms into the air as if he just won a race.

 

The room falls silent, and the man looks down at his vest in disappointment.

 

As he slaps the vest on his chest, my cigarette hits the ground.

 

At the same time, my weapon breaks the silence.