There are some people for whom the night shift is the only way to participate in modern life. Any other strategy would require a complex system of bartering and perhaps inbreeding. Our maintenance/janitor/lot man is one of these. He has a subtle lack of social acuity that isn't obvious to the casual observer. Over time, his shortcomings become painfully apparent. He acts like a few neurons are disconnected in his brain, free floating in his skull and occasionally shorting out vital organic components. The result is a person whose conversational skills and body mannerisms are roughly similar to the Tin Woodsman from the Wizard of Oz. Don't misunderstand me- he's functional, but devoid of any poise. In short, he is the perfect night shift worker.

Another model of third shift ideals is our deli girl. A divorced mother of two in her early twenties, she flirts with every other patron and at times acts like an immature girl in junior high. She seems unable to grasp of the connection between action and responsibility. Rumor has it that she turns tricks on the side. Again, she is a perfect candidate for the graveyard shift. The night provides the ideal cover for running from reality, and creating one's own.

One of the peeves of this job is the frequent return of customers. It bothers me to see someone at my counter just minutes after having taken their money and hear their story. And just now, in between writing these lines, a woman launched into a sad tale about how she was supposed to meet her friend here. And she wasn't here. Damn, that's a human tragedy worthy of a lengthy newspaper article or a special UN commission. Of course, it goes without saying that I couldn't care less.

I have to be careful not to fall into my old ways of thinking. Its just too easy for me to lapse and find solace in the depression I've fought for years now. I have to remember: I can control it.

It could be this current atmosphere at work. The long nights, the forced courtesies, listening to lonely truck drivers tell their stories, all of it wears on me. I've done this work for years. I could do it in my sleep. Now I find myself doing precisely that.

Its about stress, I have learned. If you go through it everyday thinking you can't control these pressures, that you must suffer it gladly- then it will likely get the best of you. Maybe though, you're one of the lucky ones, the legion of lucky bastards who never think about it and are never bothered by it.

The real trick, the key to defeating depression is realizing its catastrophic, maladaptive strategy for handling stress. The more you tell yourself, and the more you believe this: "I can control it.", the more likely you are to shrug this monkey off your back.

I also find myself eating more junk food. Chocolate bars, corn chips and soft drinks seem to be my staple foods during these strange nights at the truck stop. It should bother me, but I find myself unable to screw up any concern for myself. Junk food is a comfort. It keeps my spirits high on this graveyard excursion. Oh, how glad I'll be when these shifts are over.

An interesting piece (if I do say so, myself), composed during one of my late night shifts at the truckstop:

The night shift is a weird, unnatural and nearly indescribable thing. Time drags in a way that can't happen during the day with the sun overhead, moving across the sky. There is life in the daytime, a subtle him and vibration in the earth which lets you know things are happening. None of that on the night shift.

Watching the clock does you no good, no good at all. It only prolongs the agony, the desperate haze, forcing you to quantify every desolate moment of your empty existence. No, time keeping is insanity, pointless. Your brain refuses to process what the eyes see.

And there is the fundamental problem of working into the night. The primitive portion of our minds resents the fact you get up, work, and go back to bed with only a few hours of daylight at best. It's a recipe for depression, ricketts or both.

Even with those risks, perhaps this is a good thing. The primitive, reptilian side goes to sleep, freeing the higher brain to think what reality forbids. It is the purest altered state, requiring no drug or controlled substance to achieve. Only a radical shift in sleep is required. The cheapest of cheap buzzes.

Bob Dylan's long awaited memoirs, Chronicles, Vol 1 will be released October 12, 2004. Wow. I had no idea he was working on them, but if his book is anything like the liner notes for the Biograph box-set, then we're in for a hell of a read.

This was written a few nights ago, during one of my overnight shifts at the convenience store. Make of it what you will:

For reasons I can't explain, tonight feels more like a warm night in November as opposed to a cool one in September. Driving to work this evening, I found myself wishing I could hear some Christmas pop:
Hall & Oates - Jingle Bell Rock
Queen - Thank God Its Christmas
John Lennon - Happy Christmas ( War is Over ),
Just to name a few.
Something about this year has made me wish it was the holidays already. I know some people feel like they're fake, or an elaborate marketing scheme, but I buy into all of it. I'm looking forward to Thanksgiving and Christmas this year. I didn't send any cards out since I was flat broke, but since I'm employed this year I probably will to a few close friends and family. And there's always that Charlie Brown Christmas DVD that must be watched. Yeah, bring on that yuletide feelin'.

The remnants of Ivan have kicked our butts again, with rather the same intensity that Frances did a week earlier. Flooding has returned, causing distress througout the county in the form of closed roads and stranded citizens. Nuts.