The Long Shift

Skinner spun around to face the lamp and opened his robe. He was flashing a tiny sun. A tiny, personal sun. It was too bright to look at, and his tiny studio flat was entirely engulfed in the white glow. The therapist said at least an hour a day, no sunglasses. He enjoyed the light. It was just his imagination, but it felt warm.

The evidence for light therapy was a bit sketchy, but his therapist seemed to believe in it. The NHS even paid for the light and three weeks of CBT. Skinner shuddered at the thought of how much this would have cost him in co-pays in Florida. Socialized medicine was freaking awesome. The coffee machine clicked on.

While he waited for his coffee to brew, he cut up some sweet potatoes for a hint of Thanksgiving cheer. It took hours to find a shop that sold marshmallows in London, but it was totally going to be worth it. His therapist didn’t believe him about sweet potato casserole. Skinner promised photos. His arms were stark black lines spreading across the kitchen, the chopping motion looked like a shadow play. Skinner tried to remember how to make shadow puppets.

A faint voice in the back of his mind piped up, an accent he couldn’t quite place. Valley girl, but indistinct. He couldn’t really hear the voice, just the tone, the drawl, the mouth full of marbles, and a hint of vocal gravel. It irritated him. He mimicked the voice, “What is this décor, soooo depressing. You need a life coach. Let’s start with potted plants and throw pillows. Oh, your fingernails—are—like, butter.” The valley girl started strong, then slid into a New York accent. It’d been a while since he heard the lady’s voice in his head. Usually it was just as he woke up when he was a kid. He wondered if valley girls were still a thing.

Skinner groaned and put the knife down.

Now he was hearing things, a sure sign he was losing it. He hadn’t reacted well to the move from sunny Florida to the eternally gray London. His flat reflected his mood, stark white walls devoid of decoration, minimalist furniture in shades of black and gray…except for this hour each day where everything was brilliant white.

Suddenly his heart wasn’t into cooking. He took the three steps from the kitchen to his two-seater couch and flicked the SAD light off.

Skinner googled auditory hallucinations. One article suggested Seasonal Affective Disorder could worsen symptoms of mental illness.

Great.

Moving overseas was supposed to be his fresh start, but instead, he was deteriorating. Maybe he should see an actual doctor.

He shuffled back to the kitchen in his boxers and poured the first of several coffees. The first cup was way too dark—the machine was only halfway done. Steam shot off the hot plate from an aged seal. Skinner peeked through the blinds. Just a typical morning - damp, gloomy, sun still hidden despite being after three. The neighbor’s house blocked the low hanging afternoon sun. He sighed and let the blinds snap shut.

Skinner carried his coffee to the sofa. He lowered himself gingerly, feeling the various aches of 40-something bones. The black leather cushions squeaked beneath him. His joints squeaked back to the cushions. Skinner sipped his drink, browsing depression forums on his phone. Apparently, hearing voices could be a side effect of extreme isolation. That diagnosis seemed more likely than full-blown schizophrenia.

He still felt like he was moving through molasses. A sense of dread hung over him, as inescapable as the London rain. It was going to be a long day.

*

At 15:15, an alarm sounded in a small gray room. Del silenced the buzzer and cracked his knuckles. He settled back into the driver’s seat after his union break. The weathered leather saddle was studded with knobs and dials. Many hadn’t been touched since Skinner’s childhood, but Del knew their functions by heart. He twisted a few just to mess with the next shift.

First order of business - dealing with Amy. Del checked his phone - 5 missed calls from her already. With a sigh, he declined the incoming call. Amy meant well, but she grated on him. Her shrill voice pierced his eardrums.

“Sorry babe, busy day at the office,” Del typed. “Talk later?” He muted notifications and shoved the phone in a drawer. Out of sight, out of mind.

Now, onto more pleasurable pursuits. Might as well enjoy his shift, since he only got a pathetic 8 hours and a bit not being henpecked. Del nudged Skinner to open a private browser window. Call it “Mood Enhancement,” Del thought. He cued up a favorite adult video, keeping one eye on the door in case Al returned early.

The video was just getting good when another call from Amy rattled Del's phone in slow circles around a drink holder. Del declined the call again. Maybe she’d get the message if he ignored her long enough. The phone soon stilled, allowing Del to refocus on the scene unfolding on screen. His imagination took things even further, picturing himself as the star performer.

Del was fully engrossed in his fantasy when the shift change alarm startled him.

Skinner blinked three times.

16:09 already! Cursing under his breath, Del stormed out as Al walked up to the time clock. He hated surrendering control when things were just getting interesting. Del had blue balls, was horny as heck, and now he’d have a situation to deal with when he got home tonight. Amy did not like being ignored.

Oh well, he thought with a smirk. At least Al would get to enjoy the show. Serves him right for taking the evening shift.

*

At 4:09 pm, Al stamped his card to start his shift.

Skinner blinked twice.

Al shuffled into the control room, clutching a tattered volume of stories, The Inimitable Jeeves. Al lowered himself gingerly onto the creaking leather saddle. He donned his thinking cap and flipped switches to reroute controls. Time to get Skinner back on track.

“Porn again? Damn it Del!”

Al shook his head at Del’s tastelessness. He redirected Skinner to an article on meditation techniques, then opened the Wodehouse collection. A few laughs would lighten the mood after Del’s escapades.

Skinner resisted at first, clicking back to the porn site. He put his legs up on a milk crate, then slid his hands down his pants.

Al twisted a few knobs, forcing the literary content to the forefront. He would not have their shift wasted on such trash. Honestly, Del’s impulsiveness was getting out of hand. The shift changeovers had gotten noticeably rockier.

When Skinner tried to return to the explicit material, Al banged repeatedly on the wall and yelled, “Wodehouse! Wodehouse!” Skinner wouldn’t be aware of the screaming, but it was cathartic for Al.

Skinner opened a bottle of aspirin and took a couple of pills with a swig of coffee.

Al’s shoulders unknotted.

Skinner put Jeeves and Wooster on TV and set the warm coffee on his bare belly.

Al sank back into the pilot’s chair, prepared for a pleasant, if long, evening.

Around 7 pm, Al began counting down to clock out—12 hours and 17 minutes. He could feel the exhaustion seeping into his bones. The deep winter nights wore on him. He craved the oblivion of sleep, but rest rarely came easy. Insomnia had plagued him for months as Vitamin D waned. Del was probably blissfully slumbeing through the endless nights while Al wrestled with racing thoughts.

Skinner was asleep by 9pm.

“Good boy.” Al said. He read aloud from Wodehouse and then Kafka’s short stories to add a bit of spice. When Al got tired, he switched to some new stuff by Chung and Enriquez. He ate, monitored all the dials, came up with new ideas for the next "Great American Novel". Al drank too much tea, napped fitfully with his hands tucked under his arms so he wouldn't nudge anything in his sleep, and waited out the last three hours while Skinner slumbered.

The control room leaked. It also creaked with every movement like an old wooden ship. It also sounded like an industrial vacuum was racing back and forth past the hallway. But work is work. Patch what you can and nudge your charge.

“A job’s a job.” Al said out loud, then yawned.

7:22 am, the shift change buzzer sounded. Skinner blinked three times. He was still asleep.

Al hauled himself upright with a groan. He shuffled to the door, glaring at Del for the porn incident, but kept moving. He was too tired for an altercation.

Collapsing face-first onto his mattress, Al surrendered to the sandman’s embrace. As consciousness faded, he hoped for at least a few hours of peace before another long, bleak shift.

*

Del limped slightly as he entered the control room at 7:22 am.

Skinner blinked twice then let out a long whistling fart.

Del wrinkled his nose - it reeked of Al’s weird foods in the control room. Kippers and curry did not make for a good breakfast. Just another way Al made his life difficult. At least it wasn’t steak and kidney pie. Del shuddered at the thought.

“Skinner, good morning, you pasty American jackass.” Del was in a wretched mood. “You know what just happened, Mr. Skin-suit?” Del put on the thinking cap. “After I explicitly told Amy not to bother me at work, she’d gone on a tirade about how I was inconsiderate and clearly cheating while I was at work.”

Skinner had sat up and pulled on some socks.

“Here I was mate, standing in front of her and I told her what was what—Del’s phone chirped—Speak of the devil.”

Del typed a scathing response. “How dare she lob accusations without proof? I hadn’t cheated in at least...well, a month anyway. And certainly not at work!” Del waved his arms as if Skinner could see how tiny the control room was. His phone rang. Del fumbled it while trying to secure the cap with one hand. He pressed the wrong button on the phone.

Amy’s shrill but tinny voice filled the control room as she called to continue reaming him out. With a sigh, Del put her on speaker so he could multitask. He dug around for cans of food and deliberately shook up all Al's carbonated drinks. Al would have a mess to clean up tomorrow. It made enough noise to let Amy know that work was actually work. He wasn’t just sitting on a throne somewhere drinking scotch.

“I saw the browser's history, Del! You’re disgusting. I don’t know why I’m surprised. You’ve always been obsessed with that stuff. But ignoring me all day to jerk off? Have some respect!”

“Oh, don’t try to shame me!” he volleyed back, sweeping the pile of food onto the floor. “We both know you’re no saint.” Del kicked the wall hard out of frustration. The wall gave off a satisfying crack. “How long did you screw Bryan behind my back again?”

Skinner staggered against the sofa-bed, one hand clamped to his gushing nose. Blood dripped onto the stained carpet. Dizziness overwhelmed him. He hardly noticed when his quaking legs gave out. He grasped his phone. Was it 9-1-1? Or 9-9-9 like the rest of Europe? He couldn’t remember. He tried 9-1-1 and was barely aware of the voice on the other line saying “emergency services”

There were so many other voices.

*

Skinner regained fuzzy awareness under the harsh fluorescent lights. A feminine voice droned nearby. He could hear a phone ringing in the distance. His tongue felt like sandpaper and his wrists were cold. No, not just cold - encircled by metal cuffs. He blinked groggily at the hospital room swimming around him.

“...severe nosebleed indicative of intense stress. Seemed to be in a heated argument with himself and asking for help. Patient was increasingly agitated and abusive towards staff upon admission. We had to restrain him for safety...”

Safety? He tried to lift his head but couldn’t make his neck muscles cooperate. The stern woman in scrubs - a doctor? - didn’t seem to notice his waking.

“...history of depression and Seasonal Affective Disorder may have contributed...”

The doctor’s voice faded out again. Skinner’s bursts of consciousness were mere blips between the darkness. A nurse changed his IV bag and checked his vitals. He was sure they were helping him, even if he couldn’t form words to thank them. Exhaustion, or drugs, sucked him back under.

*

Del shook his head. He'd crushed his phone with the thinking hat. That wasn’t his best idea. Amy was defiantly moving out. Amy’s...oh, God. The hospital. Del’s guts churned with shame and nausea. For once, words failed him.

At 4:09 pm, Skinner blinked five times.

Del clocked out, skin ashen.

Al shouldered past Del without a glance. He took in the disarray - the new leaks, the cracks in the thinking hat. Al’s alarm grew as he logged in to the saddle and pieced together Del’s atrocities. The bright light illuminating the control room wasn’t the one in Skinner’s flat.

“What did you do?” Al asked.

The mental ward did not answer.