People of the Night

The year is 1973. I have just begun working at a grocery supply warehouse in Worcester, Massachusetts. I work in the dispatcher’s office, helping to set up delivery trips for the following day. The dispatcher’s name is Sy, a quick-witted fellow who is easy to like. I know the warehouse manager because my friend is dating his daughter. (That’s how I landed the job.) It is a relatively relaxed and fun workplace between Armard, the manager, and the other department bosses.

The job’s most frustrating feature is that the computer we rely on to print out the orders frequently breaks down. This sometimes stretches into the night before we can start handing out the orders that need to be picked and loaded. Once those orders from the computer room arrive, the loading dock becomes a maelstrom of activity! Sy is responsible for determining in what order each load will be delivered, in other words, first to last stops. The orders are printed on labels that direct the warehouse workers to the items to be loaded onto the waiting trailers. It’s my job to stack them in the order Sy has assigned and then write the type of trailer for use, such as a 40’trailer or a straight job. I often compare these occasions to those of firemen. Six and a half hours of sheer boredom and one and a half hours of pure panic. Those trucks must leave their loading bays on time or the customers will complain to the head office, which doesn’t want to hear any excuses.

On nights like these, I will sometimes leave work anywhere from midnight to one in the morning. The quickest way to the expressway is to take the Belmont Street on-ramp. However, it is a hill and can be tricky to maneuver in the winter. For some reason, Worcester has a policy of not plowing the city roads until at least six inches of snow has fallen. If only four inches of heavy wet snow should fall, you must drive around Worcester in deep ruts or through intersections of deep slushy water. What a mess

…

It’s February, and Bob Copeland has been updating his forecast all day. What started as a few flurries around noon switched to two to three inches by three and increased to three to four inches for the commute home. The last report I heard was that the snow could increase to six to eight inches with strong winds overnight. But that’s just how it is in the Blackstone Valley. With her seven hills, Worcester sits at the head of the valley down to the Rhode Island gulf. Most storm systems cutting across the state get caught in the valley and stall, wreaking havoc on the poor residents who live there. And won’t you know this is the night the computer chooses to break down.

Sy and I have been waiting for several hours now with the promise that we’ll have something soon. The first shift has left, and the second is halfway through its night. I hear the dispatcher window slide open and see Bob the yardman shaking off snow and removing his thick gloves.

“Hey, Ricky! If you’ll throw me your keys, I’ll move your car down from the upper lot next to the building. I’ve already moved Sy’s. He told me to park it in President Shultz’s spot!” Bob laughs.

I chuckle and toss him the keys to my ’63 Plymouth Barracuda. “Then you had better park mine in the V.P.’s parking place. I don’t want to feel left out!”

At a quarter to ten, the door to the office swings open, and the head of the computer department brings in the night’s work before he goes home. “S-o-r-r-y!” he exclaims, adding, “I hear it is getting pretty slick out there, so be careful driving home! Night!”

Sy and I work as a team, but it doesn’t take long before I’m falling behind.I have to handle all the paperwork and write all the information by hand. On top of that, the warehouse night foreman keeps taking labels out of the pile before I’m done to keep the warehouse pickers moving so everyone can go home at the same time. Everyone but me, that is. I’m always the one who has to lock up before going home. That means I have to ensure all the doors are locked and the lights are turned off.

As I head down the ramp, I hear the wind rattling the roll-down bay doors. It sounds like mechanical thunder. I have to push the exit door hard to move the foot of snow against it. I can see the wind blowing the snow horizontally in the outside lights, and I need to brace myself to turn into it. The snow is cold and feels like bits of glass tearing into my skin.

Once I reach my car, I can’t just drive away. On, no! It is an old car with many quirks. It’s hard to start, especially in the winter. First, I must turn on the lights and count to ten in Mississippi’s. That warms the car battery. Next, I put the stick shift in neutral and pump the gas pedal three times.Finally, I turn the ignition switch and listen to the engine turn over a few times before bursting into life with the deep, throaty sound of my Thrush mufflers booming. I have studded tires for winter driving for better traction.I place my car in first gear and crawl out of the driveway onto the main road.

Driving down Grove Street, I can already tell that using Belmont Hill is out of the question. I decide to drive straight through the downtown area instead. The wind whips the snow hard, and I am often in a whiteout.All the traffic lights are flashing yellow. I’ve decided the best route is to turn left at City Hall, right at the Public Library, then take the bypass to 146 and continue home.

I crawl along slowly and pass the courthouse when, out of the corner of my eye, I see a figure struggling to get through the snow. I shake my head. “What’s this clown doing out?” A little further on, I notice a couple huddled together in the archway of the abandoned Lowell’s theater. The strong wind blows the snow, blocking my view, and the couple is gone when it clears.I’m starting to get a weird feeling.

At the light ahead of me is a car rocking back and forth, stuck in the snow.I slowly approach and see a man emerge from the shadows, moving in the car’s direction. At first, I assume the man may be about to offer help when I become aware that he is only dressed in a business suit, his tie blowing back over his shoulder. He is moving in a lethargic manner, but I also sense a feeling of determination emanating from him.

As we draw closer, I can make out his features more clearly, which are frightening. His eyes are deep-set and glowing a feverish red! His skin is grey with loose patches blowing in the wind, his arm extended, reaching for the car! My heart pounds in my chest as I can’t believe what I see. Movement catches my attention from across the street, and I see a small group of these things descending toward the car—the car’s wheels screech wildly as the man tries to escape.

I honk my horn and roll down my window, shouting over the howling wind, ”I’ll push!” Our bumpers touch, and I give it the gas, my studs ripping into the pavement.Once free, I watch him fish-tail away into the storm. Now the gruesome creature is at my passenger window, snarling angrily, grabbing at my door handle! A shiver passes through me from head to toe. I shift into low gear and slam the gas pedal, sending a rooster-tail high into the night. Looking in my rear view mirror, I watch the mob turn to follow.

I’m gripping the steering wheel and shifter so hard that all my fingers are numb.At the corner of Main and Pleasant Streets, a group of these monsters is bent over something on the ground, and I divert my eyes so as not to see.

As planned, I turn left at City Hall when the snow suddenly blocks my vision.Something hard hits the side of my car, and I yelp, but manage to keep going. My chest hurts from my heart pounding so hard. I want to cry.

A man in a bloodied shirt runs past the front of the car, terror all over his face.I whisper, “I’m sorry, forgive me,” and turn toward the library. Once I pass the library, I can reach the bypass and take Route 146 home.

…

The next morning, I race to the mailbox and grab the Morning Gazette.I search the paper front to back and find nothing about what I had experienced the night before. One article mentions finding empty cars abandoned in the snow, but nothing more. I furrow my brow and shake my head, “I don’t understand! I saw it, I truly saw everything!”

I quit that job and use my savings to go to Barber school, vowing never to venture into Worcester again.