Graveyard Shift

Graveyard Shift

A Story by Sagar Singh

Kyle Merrick lived on Holley Street in downtown Springfield. Just a few houses down Sherry was having a New Years Eve Party, the party of the decade their friends were calling it. Kyle was stoked, it would be his first real high school party, his friend Diego had scored them both invitations in the last week before Winter Break. This would be Kyle’s chance to finally be a cool kid, and do whatever they did (he didn’t really know since he spent his time watching reruns of Whose Line is it Anyway and drinking Big Gulps). He had spent all week picking out his outfit, one he thought his most attractive and well put together. A startling combination of a shock green striped shirt and red corduroy pants would be sure to get Sherry’s attention. 


So when Kyle got the call that he had to come into work at 9:00 pm on December 31st he just about punched a hole in life size Axl Rose cardboard cutout. He didn’t luckily, as that was his big 16th birthday present, and one of his most prized possessions, right behind his Star Wars bed sheet and original holographic Charizard Card (1st edition mind you). He toyed with telling them he was sick, but that would be his third time this month, and that had been grounds for firing others in the past. He couldn’t risk that. He scrolled through his contact list, (a measly 13 contacts including his mom, dad, sibings, employees, and Diego) to see who could cover for him, but who would voluntarily give up their New Years Eve to help some kid go to a meaningless party. Kyle’s only option was to suck it up and take his shift. 



Those reflective, sickeningly sticky tile floors seemed to laugh at every step Kyle took as he performed that awkward dance known to so many as that done when changing shifts. Normally working night shifts was the worst, the sketchy people in this part of town made it so, but certain measures taken made it seem safe enough, and reminded them of how dangerous things really were, tonight just added to that. He stepped behind the counter, put on his hat with the large yellow M, donned his grease stained apron and put a sign on the ice cream machine that said “out of order.” If nobody was going to walk in then why should he bother with actually using it. He heard a goodbye from whoever had taken the shift before him, he was too busy wallowing in teenage self-pity to notice who it actually was. His co-worker skipped out joyfully, knowing he wouldn't be the one who got shafted and stuck behind the counter on that joyous occasion of raucous inhibition. He stopped before leaving and turned to Kyle. 


“Man, I bet it sucks to get this shift, I can’t even imagine. Anyway, I’ll see you around!” (He wouldn’t, the town was boring and nobody ever really saw anyone)


And with that he left. Kyle mumbled a reply of his own under his breath, after which he went into the back, grabbed the mop and a rag, and began his usual process of cleaning before his shift. The tables were relatively clean, and only one of the seats had that brown stain that we so attribute to children, but deep down we know spawns from some unclean heathen who cares more about getting a diet soda with their meal as opposed to personal hygiene. He took that chair out back and sprayed it with their special brand of McDisinfectant and hosed it off. It looked clean enough so he left it back there behind the fence in which they held all of their extra chairs, tables, play pit balls, and any items that were found in the store but had never been claimed. As of that moment it held four purses, two cellphones, seven race cars, and an incredibly worn nascar hat with the faint number 27 on it in large block numbers. He threw the chair in its stack and went back inside to finish mopping. 


He finished his routine without interruption. The mop went back into the storage closet, and the rag into the sink, punctuated by a heavy sigh only a teenage in gut wrenching grief could emit. With his cleaning done, he decided to check the storage fridge to make sure everything was alright. Upon entering he was met by that smell stale coolant that accompanies the cool draft of an industrial freezer. He checked all of the main items, the patties and the fries and the buns and all the necessary ingredients for the making of a burger only a fast food chain could produce. He ran into Trouble when checking the fish patties, but shooed him away quickly before any real damage was done. Trouble was his favorite of the rats in the store, the only one who came and went without disturbing the patrons and always knew to hide when the health inspector came around. He seemed to avoid all the rat traps placed out for him, so the employees decided that he deserved to live, and dubbed him Trouble, a name that allowed them to talk about him in front of the manager without drawing attention. 


The roaches, however, were a different issue. They proved a constant threat to the state of the store and always knew just where to go to get into the most trouble. Not trouble as in Trouble, but as in “Oh Jesus there’s another roach in the fry cooker” trouble. Which is why when Kyle saw that the boxes of special sauce had those holes in it that so denoted the presence of their pesky petty friends, he almost started weeping, because he knew that this would just mean another lecture from the boss about how they needed to take action against these intruders, and due to the manager’s logical inconsistencies, he knew that he would get blamed for the fact that they were there just because he found them. So, with great pain, he did what any honorable employee would do and left the box for someone else to find. They had enough up front to last until tomorrow morning and he wasn’t going to lose his job over special sauce. (Knowing his coworkers he suspected that he was not the first to do this, and in fact he was right. That same discovery had been made three times already, and the next time wouldn't be the last either. It would take three more discoveries before it was brought to the managers attention, which would result in a firing of some employee, a failed attempt at buffing up sanitation measures, and a sweeping under the rug of any evidence of this ever happening). 



The register was broken again. Kyle found that out the hard way, when a single mother with two children demanded that he accept her three month old coupon, which apparently was too much for the fickle machine to handle, so the machine decided that now would be a good time for a rest and terminated the transaction then and there. He moved over to the next and used that one for the payment. He still got yelled at for wasting time and got accused of being both “too much of an idiot to work the machine” and “so smart that he was too good for this”, which rather confused him. 


Needless to say, the women took her food, complained about it being wrong, demanded an apple pie, and left. Of her two twenty dollar bills that she paid with, one was counterfeit, but that wouldn’t be detected until corporate did the filing that month.



His next encounter however, proved to be somewhat more fruitful. It came at 10:17, right after he finished his third attempt at counting all of the ceiling tiles. He heard the bell ring to signify that somebody had entered the store, and stood up straight behind the counter. 

“Welcome to McDonald’s how may I serve you,” Kyle repeated, as he had so many times.


“Oh, no way in particular, I’m going to take a look at your menu for a while, I’ll order when I’m ready.”


Kyle nodded in affirmation and mumbled a reply, his eyes fixed on the sight before him. The man leaned back against the line stalls and stared intently at the list of backlit many items. His eyes were hidden behind thick lensed tortoiseshell glasses in an ironically manly cat-eye shape. He had on a bowler cap with a feather that matched the rims of his glasses. His mustache was neatly trimmed, and formed into that familiar shape associated with British Businessmen and Carnival Barkers. His outfit looked right out of a silent film, complete with the chain that denoted the presence of those old fashioned pocket watches. It all seemed transposed out of Beverly Hills, except for his shoes. He wore some of the cleanest most well kept sneakers that Kyle and ever seen. He didn’t recognize the logo on the side, but he knew that they were expensive. 

Kyle was mesmerized. This level of affluence had never been seen in his limited world. He knew that these types of people existed, or, at least he had seen them in movies, but never here. The man’s head tilted back at such a slight angle, one that insinuated both a relaxed nature, but that he was still paying attention to what you said, if it interested him. 


“What do you recommend?”


The comment brought Kyle out of his transfixion. “Huh?” he replied.


“I said, what would you recommend? Sometimes I wonder if they let just anybody walk in here and step behind that counter.”


“Um, I don’t really know. I don’t eat here much. I’m not really a fast food guy.”


“Alright then, let’s just go with your most popular then.”


“I’d say that would be the Big Mac sir.”


“Alright a Big Mac then, and don't call me sir. I may look the part I know, but that’s not my name.”


“If you don’t mind me asking, what is your name sir, oh shoot, um, sorry,” Kyle asked as he went back to start on the man’s meal.


“Marcus is my name, although I would prefer if you just called me Marc, it’s what my friends call me.”


“Am, uh, am I your friend, sir, uh, Marc.”


“No, but that is the name I prefer, and there’s no animosity between us as far as I’m concerned, so please, Marc, if you will.”


“Ok Marc,” Kyle sad as he placed the burger in the container, then into the bag. He moved around in the back as he put the fries in to fry. “Marc, if you don’t mind me asking, why did you come here? It’s New Year’s Eve, doesn’t someone like you have somewhere to be?”


“Someone like me? Pray tell, what exactly is ‘Someone like me’?”


“Well, rich,” Kyle replied, always the master of language.


“Ah yes, well I guess I do have somewhere that I’m expected, but that’s of little importance, they’ll wait for me.”


“Oh,” Kyle was greatly disappointed that nobody would wait for him.


“Yes. Being ‘someone like me’ does have its perks indeed,” Marc said, as Kyle removed the fries and put them into their signature container. “What’s wrong young man?” Asked Marc, and Kyle had grown rather dour.


“I just wish I had people that would wait for me that’s all,” Kyle explained, wishing that he had people who would wait for him, “But nobody does, they just ignore me.”


Marc replied “Well consider this, are you worth being waited for? Or are you worth being ignored?” and laughed, taking the bag of food and handing Kyle a ten. “Keep the change,” he said, as if that would make a difference.


“Thank you, so much,” Kyle said, like it made a difference. The man was almost out of the door when Kyle stopped him.


“Wait, sir!”


“Marc.”

“Oh, yea, Marc, Sir. Well, I was just wondering, where are you from?”


“Does it really matter?” The man chuckled as he replied, “All that matters is where you end up.”


And with that, Marc left, leaving Kyle to ponder his words. Kyle went back to counting.



The night was coming to a close. Kyle was incredibly tired and wanted nothing more than to just go home. As he was finishing his final count of the apple pies left in storage he heard the bell ring.


“Jesus Christ it’s almost midnight who the hell-“ but he stopped short. 


“Hi Kyle.” 


It was Sherry. She came. She had actually ditched the party and come to visit him.


“Sherry, but, how did you-“


“Diego told me. I figured I should come visit you.”


“But, but why?” He asked, still not believing that she had come.


“Because, well because I really wanted to see you at my party. That’s why I gave Diego those invitations. I guess I just though…”


“Thought what?”


“That maybe you’d be there for when midnight strikes.”


The implication was not lost on Kyle, on whom the implication of things is usually lost.


“What about John?”


“John and I are done. I broke up with him before the party started, we, we’ve been having troubled lately.”


“Well, it is almost midnight you know,” John said, thinking maybe he could imply something himself.


“That it is,” she said as the digital clock next to the register blinked 11:59. “I guess since we can’t actually count it out, maybe we could just guess?”


“Sounds good to me,” said Kyle, who still couldn’t believe that this was real.


“Okay then, I guess I’ll start. 10.”

“9” Kyle’s heart was racing.


“8”


“7” He heard each beep of the digital clock.


“6”


“5” His mouth was getting drier.


“4”

“3” His heart was racing.


“2” His heart was racing.


“1” His heart was racing.


They both leaned in, eyes closed, ready.


Nothing. Kyle felt no pressure that would usually denote a kiss.


“Huh?” He said, opening his eyes.


Kyle felt the saliva pooling around his cheek, apple pie in hand.


He looked up at the clock. 11:59 still.


“I knew it,” he said. He pulled himself up and leaned back against the bottom of the counter. “She would never…” he trailed off. He reached behind himself underneath the counter. 


The clock struck twelve. “Am I someone worth being waited for? Hah, funny thought.” 

The fireworks masked the crying, and any other sounds.

© 2017 Sagar Singh


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Added on June 29, 2017
Last Updated on June 29, 2017
Tags: graveyard, shift, humor, satire, fiction

Author

Sagar Singh
Sagar Singh

New York, NY