The Night Shift

17th Dec

Frank crumples under the fluorescence of the corner shop light system, sitting with the weight of the night shift on his shoulders. He watches the abstraction of stars in the reflection of the glass, and his breath materialises in the frosty air. The only customers that graced him at this time of night were intoxicated stragglers who never ceased to overshare with their cashier.

The shopfront is decked out with tacky Christmas lights that buzz and flicker like dying embers. Maybe it's because minimum-wage work isn't exactly Frank's dream job, but it drives him crazy.
December haunts him; the winter chill perforates his every defence, stiffens his bones, and dulls his senses.

Every year he promised himself it'd be different; he'd find a way to leave, but as he ages, he feels the oppressive thoughts creep in.

Seemingly every inhabitant of Ormond urges his departure, but something roots him here.

A whisper of a sigh escapes Frank as he chews on the company phone's spiral chord, eyes still fixed on the blurry mess of a window as he tries to spot his favourite stars. He fumbles with the pockets of his jeans, fishing out his lighter and a few cigarettes, then beelines for the exit. A break wouldn't hurt in this ghost town.

The warm metal reflects in the light of the fleeting flames, and Frank's eyes settle on the smoke as he plays with the lighter. He draws it up to his mouth, igniting the cigarette between his lips, and inhales. The scent grounds him, and the cold breeze nips at his nose.

A few rocks roll along the snow-licked ground, meeting Frank's beat-up converse as he kicks them mindlessly. The stars are clearer out here, but Frank could only focus on how much brighter they'd shine elsewhere. Anywhere but here. Sparse street lamps all but ruined the visage of night; the whole scene was convoluted with natural and artificial lighting.

With a quick motion, he snuffs out the cigarette and shuffles back indoors, sinking into the creaky chair behind the cash register.

Frank's hands meet the buttons of the store's telephone without hesitation; Julie will pick up, no doubt. He can't stand the silence in here.

"I'm sorry for calling so late, Jules. Did I wake you up?" Frank lulls, the shuffling on the other end becoming apparent.

"Yeah.." She laughs, "It's fine. You good?"

"Never better." He smiles slightly, leaning into the phone as he drums his fingers along the counter.

"Any drunks visiting you tonight? Not many on a Sunday, I bet."

"Ugh. Don't even, babe." Frank grimaces: "Still a few hours left of my shift, so anything could happen."

He hears Julie laughing and pictures it too, the thought making him blush mildly.

"Frank, I really want to stay and protect you from drunks, but I've got an important exam tomorrow, so..." Julie trails off, her voice becoming a whisper. Sometimes he wishes he'd never pushed that referee, stayed in school, and graduated.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Get some sleep."

Exhaling, he moves to hang up before Julie adds, "I love you."

He meets it with his own equally sweet "I love you too" before the line is cut entirely.

It was so utterly quiet once more.

So caught up in his own thoughts, Frank tunes out the chime of the store's bell. A man of average height is snaking into the closest aisle to most likely escape the cold.
He steals glances at the fuzzy CCTV footage, watching the man intently; he's never seen this one before.

The time was, what, 2 in the morning? Frank was over the whole customer service thing a long time ago, but newcomers are a rarity.

Eventually the man stands opposite the till, placing down a newspaper and, in Frank's opinion, the nastiest jar of coffee grounds available. He seems completely sober, yet maybe not entirely there if his coffee fix is late at night.

"That all?" Frank's voice is hoarse after being silent for hours. The man before him has hands mottled with frost, his glasses are foggy, and he aches with cold from head to toe. Despite his condition, the man cracks a polite smile, pointing behind the cashier.

"Cigs too, please, whichever's your favourite. I don't know any Canadian brands."

He nods, picking out some Winston Smooths. They're not his favourite, but he's sure the odd man would like them.

"These have a less Canadian taste, if that means anything to you."

"I'll trust your pick. I only got here a few days ago." States the man, watching as Frank scans the newspaper.

"Are you staying for long?" Frank replies, feigning interest in the other's reason for travelling to this damned place.

"It really depends; I'm a journalist, so I go where stories are needed."

Frank laughs

"You won't find much here."

The man shrugs. "Duty calls, eh?" He holds his wallet and fishes out a twenty.

"I need to ID you for the cigs." Frank schemes; he doesn't actually care about following laws; he only wants to snoop.

"I'm flattered." He laughs at the man opposite him, handing Frank his driver's licence.
His eyes roamed the card, confirming his suspicions.

"Florida huh?"

Jed. 26-year-old Jed Olsen nods, slotting the card back in his wallet and grabbing the bagged items.

"Stay safe." Frank manages, pressing random buttons on the cash register.

"Oh. Yeah, you too." Jed laughs faintly, slinking back out into the shroud of night.

Asphyxiating envy eats at Frank; he craves new surroundings, new people, and a new environment. He's green with jealousy, with a pit in his stomach, cursing people like Jed and their freedoms. He claws a hand through his hair, lamenting as he closes for the night. The buzz of the Christmas lights taunts him and reminds him of his loneliness. He promises himself he'll leave Ormond for good someday.

For now, he'll go home and sleep.