shift pattern.

She was a week into the job when the new shifts were announced.

“As you know, we’ve increased our portfolio to include international clients. This means we need to operate on a more global-friendly basis.”

The unease in the room still lingered. When Andrew came into the break room to announce things – “I use the break room because it’s friendly, more approachable… I’m not the man in the big shiny separate office, I’m in the trenches with the troops, ya know? It’s all about sharing the space they do. It’s just good management” he once boasted to a client – it wasn’t usually good news. The break room was where budget cuts were announced, where the downsizing happened, where the cheap crappy coffee lived.

“This is also an opportunity for you to seize! Today I’m announcing that we will be restructuring the shift patterns of this place. The world isn’t 9-5 anymore. We need a different approach.”

The vending machine hums. Nobody makes eye contact with him. 

“Those who have childcare needs will get the shifts they require. We know the importance of balancing work and family life. As for the rest of you, you need to remember this is a team… we all chip in” 

She picks at the polystyrene cup of cheap ass shitty coffee, making sure to blend in with the general disdain. 

He passes out the shift pattern sheets. 

“Sign up here for the shift you’d like to have… now, there is one in particular that will require different arrangements. If you would like to work these hours please talk to me ASAP”

She glances at the sheet. The ‘different arrangements’ shift has an asterisk. Her eyebrows move upward. She goes over to Andrew.

“I’ll do the 4-12 shift” 

His initial looks is one of doubt mixed with shock… but eventually his expression turns into a wide mouthed smile. 

“Such enthusiasm for the job, I love it – guys we already have a volunteer for the difficult shift – a massive thanks to our new recruit Alexe” he announces to the break room.

A collective sigh of relief comes from the other employees. Some look sceptical. Some happy. Others entirely unbothered. One is still reading her gossip magazine speculating on the latest celebrity baby and has zoned out completely.  

“It’s no problem”. Her words slurred under the weight of embarrassment. She doesn’t like this attention.

“Can you start tomorrow?”

“Sure”

And so the next day her new hours begin.

Her routine establishes quickly.

This is perfect. She breathes in the pre-dawn air. The grass is dewy. The roads are empty. The streets are still and quiet. Her little suburb is still asleep. 

She sits on the bus, no headphones on, listening to every rattle and shake of the otherwise empty vehicle. Just her and the driver at 3am, passing through the world in slumber. 

This is what it would be like if the world was suddenly wiped out by a plague. Just her, wandering the empty streets. Silence. Quiet. Still. A girl can dream. 

Into the city centre she sees the stories of last night continuing on in a new day. People stumbling into taxis, new couples kissing (unsure of their last names but sure of their needs), heels off and held in handbags, matted sweaty hair and soaked shirts, the scent of kebab meat polluting the air… the night that started yesterday isn’t over yet. 

The 'different arrangement shift' requires Alexe to have keys to open the revolving doors at the front of the building. Because of her “enthusiasm for the shift”, she was trusted to have these without any background security checks. She just wants to be alone, nothing more.

She scans her security pass and goes up the elevator. 1, 2, 3 –ding. Here. 

She works for a company that writes newsletters. Companies are struggling to hire copywriters to write their newsletters, so they pay companies like the one she works for to write the newsletters for them. She clicks open her email to see the things she has to sell today. Because of her shift, she usually gets the American companies.

8 hours of writing about products, services or companies she has never heard of, never seen, never used. She’s not the best but she’s certainly not the worst. She is distinctly average. Her little kick comes from getting words hidden amongst the capital letters of each paragraph. When she works the different arrangement shift she gets the time to figure these out. 

Most of the time she gets her days work done in the first two hours. There are no cameras in the open plan office, because really, who is going to steal polystyrene cups or the multitude of different branded pens, given free by clients. All their work is online. There is nothing decent enough to steal.  

So at 6am when she is done, she sits by the window and watches the city wake up. A runner here. A dog walker there. Trucks drive down the street delivering clothes and food and bags and people. Window cleaners scale her building and clear her view. She opens the window and hands them a mug of tea. They don’t speak, but are silent in their thanks for each other. They clean, she brews the tea, they nod their goodbyes.

She sees people stumble home, still living within last night. The scent of the person they went home with still on them, the great escape being made. Bless the light of day that transforms tens into twos.  

Busses bustle by dropping off more passengers, each spreading outward toward their different destinations. Others run toward the train station, morning off to a poor start. Coffee spilled, tickets dropped, heels broken, bags spilled. Their morning is just beginning, she is four hours in. 

The low hum of her computer is the only sound. 

At 8am she gets up and does some light stretches. She grabs her daily fruit bar out her bag and catches up with her favourite websites. Even though most people don’t come in to the office until 8.45am, she likes to be careful. She values her alone time above everything. She doesn’t want to give it away. 

At 8.30am her headphones are in, podcasts on. She’s listening to a National Geographic series right now. She loves the variation of animals they cover. Today she is learning about the life of the African golden cat. 

“The African golden cat has variable fur colour, ranging from chestnut to a reddish, greyish brown. It prefers dense, moist forest with heavy undergrowth, and is often found close to rivers.”

Debbie walks into the cubicle across from her. She mouths “MORNING”, latte in hand. 

“Due to its extremely reclusive habits, little is known about the behaviour of African golden cats. They are solitary animals, and are normally nocturnal.”

Attempting to login to her computer whilst holding her handbag and latte in the same hand, Debbie’s coffee spills all over her keyboard. “SHIT, UGH FUCK stupid fucking coffee fuck”

“These cats live up to 12 years in captivity, but their lifespan in the wild is unknown”
Alexe tries to ignore her. But she makes the fatal flaw of making eye contact. She gives a sympathetic smile and passes her packet of tissues over the cubicle. “Here, use these.”

Debbie looks up in surprise. “Oh, uh thanks Alexe.”

She’s out her podcast flow now. She gets up and goes for her break. 

She heads down to the basement, it’s unused and empty. The window cleaners and janitors speak to each other, and because of Alexe’s tea delivery routine, she gets to use a spare cupboard downstairs. She has a bean bag in there, a blanket, a yoga mat… she’s even managed to fit in a little kettle and has sachets of wonderfully and wildly flavoured tea. 

She boils the kettle, picks up a lemon and honey tea, and drags out the bean bag. She sits in silence, cross legged, sipping her tea. It’s cool down here, but quiet and still. Tea finished she sketches little flowers across her notebook. Dirt. Growth. Transformation. Beauty. Flowers bursting from the pages. 50 minutes into her break she snaps shut the book, shoves the bean bag back in, locks the cupboard. She washes her mug in a bathroom on the first floor, then returns to her cubicle on three.

Alexe goes back to her podcast. Back to sneaking words into capital letters of newsletters about carpet cleaner, office supplies, recruitment agencies and business cards. Back to being in her bubble. Until she can finally go home again.