Sodium Light Saints
Behind bulletproof glass at 3:00 AM, mercy costs exactly $1.79 plus tax.
I count the bills backward. Twenties, tens, fives, ones. The drawer slides shut with a satisfying click. Ten hours down, two to go.
I've been here eight months. Management doesn't ask questions when I need to switch shifts last-minute. I move product, keep the floor clean. The books balance.
Good enough.
Night Watch
He comes in twice nightly. First around 11:00 PM, then again near 4:00 AM when his apartment walls start closing in. Always the same—cheapest tallboy in the cooler, sometimes a pack of Marlboro Reds when he can swing it.
Tonight is different. Tonight the little girl waits outside.
She's maybe seven, bundled in a coat too thin for February, bouncing on her heels to keep warm.
She watches the parking lot like she's been trained for surveillance, with the sharp eyes of someone who's learned to spot trouble early. She doesn’t even flinch when the automatic doors slide open. Doesn't turn around.
"Just this," he says, placing the beer on the counter. His hands shake worse than usual.
I scan it. "$2.19."
He counts out exact change, nickels, dimes, a quarter, all extracted from different pockets, arranged in careful piles. Some nights, this takes minutes. I never rush him.
The corners of his eyes have that tight look. The hollows beneath his cheekbones are deeper than last week. Dope sick haunt.
I bag the beer. Add a chocolate milk from the mini-cooler beside the register. Don't scan it.
Our eyes don't meet. Never have.
"Thanks," he mumbles, already halfway to the door.
The girl turns when he exits, takes the milk without question. She drinks it walking across the parking lot, her small face tilted up to the sodium lights like she's catching snowflakes.
Necessary Fiction
I tell myself stories about these people.
The shaky man and his daughter live in the government apartments three blocks over. Her mother is gone—rehab, prison, another state, another life. Doing better now. She’ll come back to get her soon.
He's doing his best. Doing his best means working day labor when his hands are steady enough, drinking himself to sleep when they're not.
In my version, he never hurts her. He never forgets to feed her. She never misses school.
I construct these stories the way I construct everything—selecting convenient details, arranging them in pleasing patterns, ignoring contradictions.
Writer's habit. It's easier than truth.
Truth is, I don't know them. Don't know if she's his daughter or niece or neighbor's kid. Don't know why she's out at that hour on a school night. Don't know why I care.
I just know the milk is another $1.79 I'll never see. Know that tomorrow I'll do it again.
Professional Courtesy
Tuesday nights Eliza stops by. Hair pulled back, scrubs wrinkled from twelve hours at County. She buys coffee, black.
"You keeping out of trouble?" she asks, same as always.
I tap my temple. "Clean as a whistle up here. You can check my oil if you want."
She gives me a smirk: that look, half concern, half disbelief. "Three months is good. But it's still early days."
Eliza knew me before. Before QuikMart, before group on Thursdays, before I counted days, before everything that led to after.
"You still writing?" she asks.
"Here and there. Nothing worth sharing."
"Bullshit. You just don't want me to read it."
She's not wrong. My notebook stays under the counter, filled with the fragments I pick up from behind bulletproof glass.
The graveyard shift is a parade of desperation and sketchy characters. Perfect material, and I mine it without permission.
Busted
The shaky man's name is Dale. I learn this when he pays with a card one desperate night, the beer joined by children's Tylenol and a can of off-brand chicken noodle soup.
"Your girl sick?" I ask, breaking our silent arrangement.
He looks startled that I've spoken. "Just a cold. Nothing serious."
I add a sleeve of cherry cough drops to his bag. Don't scan it. He notices.
"I don't need—"
"It's for her throat," I say. "Help her sleep."
He takes the bag, hesitates. "Why do you do that?"
I’m confused.
"The extras. The milk. Now this."
I shrug.
He studies me for the first time.
I wonder what he sees. Some dude. Late twenties, bad teeth, pony tail, long sleeves, baggy pants. Someone who looks away first. Disposable. Someone not worth figuring out.
"Thanks," he finally says, and leaves.
I don't tell him I keep a little book, a balance sheet. Don't tell him everything I give has to be taken from somewhere else.
I'm not a good person. Just recognize need when I see it.
Blue Light Special
Thursday night, the pharmacy on the corner gets hit.
Two squad cars idle outside, red and blue strobes paint the parking lot for hours. I can't see the pharmacy from here, but I don't need to.
The cops come in for coffee, asking if I've noticed anything suspicious. Anyone hanging around.
One of them, Reynolds, has known me since my bad old days. He takes his time running my name while his partner pretends to browse the chips.
"Convenient spot you got here," Reynolds says, stirring his coffee. "Good view of the whole block. Bet you see all kinds of interesting things."
"Not really," I say, keeping my hands visible on the counter. Old habit.
"Sure." He smiles without warmth. "Like old times, right? You always did know how to work a corner."
I give them what they expect—head shakes, concerned looks, offers to check our cameras. My hands are steady. I don’t look them in the eyes, but don’t look away either.
"We'll be watching," Reynolds says as they leave. "You see anything... interesting, you let us know." He lingers to glare.
Follow-up Interview
Eliza shows up an hour later, jaw clenched. Skips the coffee. Comes straight to the glass.
"You know anything about all this?" she asks.
"Just what the cops told me."
She studies me too long. "You doing okay? Still clean?"
I nod, look away. She knows me well. Knows I was good at chemistry once. Good enough for scholarships, for promises of medical school. Good enough to know exactly how to make what people needed when legitimate channels failed them.
"Three months is still early days," she reminds me, eyes drifting to the bathroom door over my shoulder.
Dale comes in after, stands at the magazine rack, flipping pages without reading. Head on a swivel. His fingers are steady tonight.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Fine," he says too quickly. "Just looking."
Small Mercy
The little girl's name is Sophie. She tells me this one morning as dawn bleeds shadows across the parking lot. Dale is in the bathroom longer than usual.
"I like chocolate," she says, apropos of nothing.
"I noticed."
"Why do you give it to me for free?"
Children ask the hard questions. The ones adults know to avoid.
"Because you look like you could use something sweet."
She considers this, dark eyes serious. "My dad says we shouldn't take things from strangers."
"Smart man, your dad."
She absorbs this, nods like we've settled something important.
When Dale emerges, pale and slightly steadier, she takes his hand—her habit.
I wonder what she knows. What she sees that I pretend isn't there.
Recovery Theory
Dale doesn't come in for three weeks. I notice like you notice weather. A fact without judgment.
When I see him, something's different. Steadier hands. Taller than I remember. Squared away.
He pays for his coffee—coffee, not beer—with a handful of ones.
"How's Sophie?" I ask.
"Better," he says. "We're both better."
I nod, scan his coffee, his pack of gum. Don't add anything extra.
"I got into a program," he says, not meeting my eyes. "County runs it. Full medical support."
"Good," I say. "That's good."
He hesitates, then pushes a folded paper under the glass. "You might want to check it out. They don't ask many questions."
Our eyes meet for the first time. His are clear. I see neither judgment nor absolution. Just recognition.
I take the paper, tuck it under the counter with my notebook.
"Maybe," I say. "Maybe I will."
Special thanks to David Moorhouse on Unsplash for the photo accompanying this essay. Thank you, David
P.S. If you appreciate my work, buy me a Coffee?
Thank you ♥️ ☺️
I enjoyed every second of reading this. Please writing, you’re very good at it.
Nightshifts are boring; you wrote an interesting Nightshift.
Good work, Paul.