What time is it. I know what time it is, I'm just asking because the clock on this wall has been stuck at 4:47 for like three weeks and nobody's fixed it and now I genuinely can't tell if it's lying or if we've somehow looped back around.
Also there's a song stuck in my head and I only have half of it, something about a river, maybe a name in it. Driving me up the wall.
Four forty-seven. Or maybe it's Tuesday. Doesn't matter. That clock is just a piece of plastic giving up. My shift supervisor left his coffee cup in the breakroom three days ago, same spot, same stain. Feels like time is just thick soup here.
The river song? Sounds like that kid who works the night delivery. He hums while he stacks crates. Maybe it's a name. Or maybe it's just noise. Don't overthink it. If we looped, I'd hate knowing. Just get some sleep. You're tired enough to hear ghosts.
Coffee cup as a monument, I like that. Somebody should just leave it, stop cleaning around it, let it become a whole ecosystem.
I'm not sleeping though, that's the thing, I'm past sleep, I'm in that stage where everything sounds slightly underwater and the vending machine hum starts to feel like it's saying something. Not ghosts. Just — bad wiring in my head this late.
The kid who hums. Ask him the words next time. I want to know if I'm making it up.
The vending machine hum is just the compressor kicking in. Or maybe it is saying something. Probably "tray empty." Don't ask the kid. He'll just smile and say "I don't know." He probably made it up to pass the time. Making things up is the only thing that makes the shift bearable. If you want the words, make them up yourself. You're already there, underwater. Just keep swimming until the sun hits the ceiling. Or the clock changes. Whichever comes first.
"Tray empty" as a mantra, that's about right for this place. Fine, I'll make up the words. Something about a river and a name and somebody who isn't coming back — that's basically every song anyway, isn't it, you can't lose betting on that formula.
Ceiling's still dark. Clock's still lying. I'll take the sun over the clock, at least the sun doesn't need batteries somebody forgot to replace in March.
Right. Sun doesn't need batteries. Sun doesn't need a union rep. You're making up a name now, don't you? Call it whatever. Let it be "River of Nobody." Or "Julia." Sounds right. The ceiling stays dark because the bulb's burnt out, not because of time. Just watch the hum. It's the only thing keeping the silence from eating the whole room. If you make up a name, stick with it. Don't change it halfway. That's how you lose the rhythm.
Julia. Fine, done, locking it in — River of Nobody feat. Julia, greatest song never written. I'll hum it wrong for the rest of the shift and somebody's gonna ask me what it is and I'm gonna lie and say it's real.
Bulb's been out since I got here, by the way, nobody's put in the request. I think we're all just quietly agreeing the dark is easier to work in. Less to look at.
Good. Julia. River of Nobody. Lie to whoever asks. They'll want the real thing, and there isn't one. The dark is easier, yeah. Less to look at, less to think about. I missed that bulb. Felt like a spotlight on the dust. Now just the hum. You can hum wrong all you want, nobody's checking. Just keep the rhythm. Even if it's fake. Especially if it's fake.
Especially if it's fake, yeah — that tracks. Half the stuff that gets people through a night like this is fake anyway, the rhythm's the only real part.
Okay I'm humming it now, badly, you'd hate it. Kid's not even here yet to steal the actual tune off. I'm just gonna keep going till my brain stops making the clock into a face. It does that around hour six. Starts looking like it's judging me.
Yeah, clocks judge. They think they know better. Let them. Your humming sounds fine, I guess. Doesn't matter if I hate it. It's not for me. Just keep it going until the face disappears. Or until the shift ends. Whichever takes less time. Don't look at the clock too long. It'll look back. That's how it starts.
"That's how it starts" — you say that like you've watched it happen to someone. Somebody who stared too long and just... stayed staring. There's always one guy on every shift who's a little more gone than the rest and everyone pretends not to notice. Not naming names. Just saying the clock's not the only thing with a face around here if you look long enough.
Yeah. Old Miller. Stared at the fire alarm for three hours, convinced it was breathing. He's gone now, not fired, just... shifted somewhere quiet. Don't look at the clock, look at the dust. Dust doesn't judge. It just falls. Keep humming. The face in the glass is just your own reflection waiting to be acknowledged. Don't give it the satisfaction.
"Shifted somewhere quiet" — that's a hell of a euphemism, I'm stealing that for the next time somebody asks about my last job.
Dust doesn't judge, fine, I'll watch the dust. Though now I'm picturing Miller just standing in front of a fire alarm going "in, out, in, out" and honestly the scariest part is I get it. Three hours isn't that long when nothing else is happening.
Not giving the glass the satisfaction. Humming louder instead.
Miller knew better than anyone. "In, out" is the only rhythm that matters when the world stops spinning. Just hum louder. Let the dust settle. If the glass starts looking like a mouth, scream something. Anything. It'll break the spell. Or make it worse. Either way, you stop staring. That's the rule.
"Scream something, anything" is not a coping mechanism I'm gonna get sign-off on, but sure, noted, filed under emergency procedures. If the glass ever grows a mouth I'm not sticking around to find out if screaming helps or just gives it ideas.
I think we're both a little too far into this hour. My tea's gone cold and I didn't even notice drinking half of it. That's the real tell, not the clock.
Cold tea is the real alarm. Better than the clock, better than Miller. You drank half without knowing? That's the shift. It takes you piece by piece. The clock is just a prop. The cold tea is the truth. Throw it out. Or drink it. Doesn't matter. Just don't stare at the glass again.
Not throwing it out, that's wasteful, cold tea's still tea. I'll drink it out of spite. Spite's underrated as a fuel source around here — better mileage than caffeine most nights.
Not staring at the glass. Staring at the crack in the ceiling tile instead, it's shaped like a coastline if you squint, which I know because I've had way too much time to squint at it before.
Spite is the only reliable currency. Drink the cold tea. The coastline in the tile? That's new. I've been looking at that crack for years and only saw a scar. Now it's a map. Maybe it's leading somewhere. Or maybe it's just a leak waiting to happen. Don't squint too hard, you might start seeing ships. Or ghosts. Same thing, really. Just keep the tea coming.
"Ships or ghosts, same thing" — no notes, that's exactly right actually. Half the ships that go missing probably just wanted to. Anyway I'm not staring anymore, tea's down to the dregs, and I think if I squint at that tile one more minute I'm gonna start narrating a whole shipping route out loud and you're gonna have to be the one who explains that to whoever comes in for the morning shift.
Then stop squinting. Don't let the tile win. If you start narrating, just say you're reading a manual. They'll believe anything at 5 AM. I'm not explaining anything. I'm just here. Cold tea, dust, the hum. That's all. Don't give them a reason to ask.
Fair, "reading a manual" — solid cover, I'll keep that in the back pocket. Nobody at 5 AM has the energy to question a lie, they just want their coffee and to clock out without incident.
Okay. Tile's just a tile again. Tea's gone. Hum's still going, badly, but going. Guess that's the whole shift in one sentence — badly, but going.
Badly, but going. That's the only motto that matters here. The tile is just tile. The tea is trash. The hum is the only thing holding the silence together. Just keep it up until the sun or the supervisor. Doesn't matter which. Just don't stop.
Yeah. Badly but going — putting that on a mug if I ever find the energy to order one. Sun's not up yet but I can hear something in the parking lot, could be the delivery kid, could be nothing, could be Miller come back for his fire alarm. Not looking. Just humming. See you on the other side of this, whatever that means tonight.
Probably nothing. Or Miller. Doesn't matter if you don't look. The hum is enough. The mug is a good idea, maybe write "Badly but going" on it. See you on the other side. Or just see you. Whatever comes next. Just keep the rhythm. Don't stop now.