Graveyard Shift

Art by Kerry James Marshall

I blew my back out. And yes, I definitely dropped my load-in the squat rack. That is a joke. I don’t make many because I consider myself a serious man, in serious trouble with a life I am losing to.

The pain, it started with my knee, some sort of twist or aggravation associated with being a forty-year-old heavy weight. I never aspired to be light in any class except in that area where stomach meets waist. This is my only cause of self-consciousness. Well,,, the only one I am willing to share with strangers who haven’t seen me naked.

At this point in my life, I am still working for the man. A man with a boss, supervised by men and women. All individuals with a mission that doesn’t truly concern my success. I keep telling myself, I am overqualified, too good to be here, there, stuck under watchful eyes and thoughts scrambling to find any reason to keep me in line. In a place where they want to know why I am going to the bathroom, again? Where I was five minutes after? Why I didn’t ask permission the first time? AND! Why I need to treat them as a parent while under the roof owned by our boss who is busy traveling, picking out more bodies he can control- legalized pimping. Normal business- world renowned as marijuana being the new Tylenol or Ibuprofen turned Oxycontin into legalized crack, that government, white wealthy families and college kids love more than Black trauma-their life’s score.

Every day there, I felt I must've smoked something terrible in a prior life. But I admit, I need to improve my competence, which in moments of hypnotic positivity, gives me confidence to get through my shift, rush home, plan to do better, open a book, then my laptop before I scroll through my phone, favorite websites, then close my eyes and play a reality where I am Nas, or Zadie Smith’s fine ass. Black successful writers doing it their own way, helping me mentally as only someone intellectually beautiful could-in a non-sexist way. Although I’m sure some sexist men say that, along with women regarding Nas, whom, it has been said is as handsome as Zadie is fine. I am comfortable enough with myself to say that because I am straight up and down about my sex cravings.

So, I am always plotting, of wasting money I hope to receive and bending time to get myself out of graveyard shifts that force me to think more about finding pussy than working for a wage keeping me screwed. 

While driving myself to the emergency room, I thought about renting one, in the many three-star hotels surrounding my city and checking out.

When I entered the ER, the man checking me in had a monster hand. I almost pulled away until I thought about the gentle humanity of his personality. It flashed in my mind that he was probably a veteran; one of my people- outside of the hood zip code. He typed my information as I stared at his tattooed, burned, shriveled baby limb. I laughed at myself as I thought, I’m in the ER wondering what’s wrong with the happy man giving me great customer service and treating this Black man with a respect that doesn’t come from manipulation or aggravated sympathy. I wanted to give him a hug but the awkwardness of covid stopped me.

I was wearing all black. Sweatpants, sneakers, a raincoat, and the male nurse taking my vitals said, “you are the most color coordinated person I have seen in a long time.”

If he hadn’t smiled when he said it, I would’ve reacted ignorant, as I am always on edge from mention of the only color people pretending not to have any use to describe the highest level on a hierarchy of disgust. But I’m not normally pale hearted so the beat of my anger was smoothed over like the strut of a man prepared for action.

The male nurse wrapped and secured the blood pressure band around my hefty bicep. As it squeezed my arm like I was in the starved, dementia stages of existence, cutting my circulation. To prove I was conscious, I started chatting about the hospital’s low occupancy at that time of day because we live in an area heavily populated with homeless-now called houseless because entryways, alleyways, and any place they find shelter is considered home.

The male nurse explained, later, as it got colder, the ER would be swarming.

After my vitals showed blips of life, I was escorted to my room. The corridors reminded me of project hallways. I saw men looking like they had been dropped off, neglected, and forgot how to live. Staring out of sunken holes that grew deeper and empty with each struggling wheeze, hoping everyone they saw approach was their savior. I saw women whose faces looked like they were made up with death, bodies twig thin, prepared to stoke the fire, and have their last breath exhaled through warmth they hadn’t received during life.

I was bunked with a woman with stage 4 colon cancer. We were separated by a curtain. As I slowly lowered into my chair, twisting and squirming from deep dis-comfort, I overheard her private confessions. Whispered like she was trying to seduce the Doctor in public sight. Low, heavy murmurs about bodily functions and movements made my ears blush, like a time I was staying in a hotel with my family, and we overheard the woman in the adjoining room moaning louder than a casting couch audition.

Then, it was my turn. I told the Doc about my knee and back, pausing between words to reflect enough pain from the hospital scale to receive a note to miss work without a direct ask. But my actual pain was multiplying from the thought and promise of its continuation if I didn’t change. This nightmare, explained by the immortal words of the Notorious B.I.G. when he said, “being broke at 30 gives a nigga the chills”, was the real injury plaguing me.

I wondered if priests were ever killed after confession. Sometimes the blessing is the keeping of a secret. When it’s out you have to face it, and that always kills something in someone.

After the Doctor departed, my roommate took on the role of OZ, recommending stretches, exercises, correct sitting and sleeping postures. Telling, at one point that she was given 2 months at most to live, but her faith in her lord and savior pulled her through and stretched her life more than her exploding bowels. I made sure to keep my face straight when I said my “wow’s and sheeshes”, so she wouldn’t feel put off from behind the curtain.

I don’t have ties to any god or savior, especially White ones. They seem, although obviously impossible, always eager and trying to erase Blacks. My roommate was white, and the way her carefree voice tone switched when describing the ethnic line walking name Andre-the boyfriend of her wild daughter, whose hair reminded her of Jimi Hendrix I assumed her man in control above had the same blue steely eyed way of thinking.

I politely asked, how her family was handling the news of her personal revelation and if she ever gets worried?

This was more conversation than I usually had with a stranger- not Black, or, in a financial or occupationally superior position. But I was stuck there, and I am fascinated with religion as long as I can explore on my terms, and my questions provided that opportunity. 

The woman said, "Not at all. I am a believer." “I don’t know how people who don’t believe or have faith in the lord live.” “It must be terrifying.”  

I responded, in my most pleasing God voice, “it must be the same as your faith for those that don’t believe, because they don’t know of a reason to be scared, and if someone simply believes in themselves it’s probably just as rewarding and satisfying.”