While walking home last night, I grew
incredibly sad. It would seem okay to be sad coming off a last day at
work. It was after all these years, my last restaurant shift. I’ve
heard it said that leaving a job gives most people a level of
depression, which I did not notice. Fortunately, on my last night in
the restaurant business, I worked with my favorite people. On my last
night in the restaurant business, I did not have to serve too many
people. And best of all, I only served a few people who I would
rather kick than be nice to.
So why the sadness?
It was a beautiful night. The moon was
shining through light clouds. The air was the perfect texture. I
walked the 6 blocks without a hat on my head or gloves on my hands. I
walked upright through the neighborhood and Roosevelt park. At one
point, crossing through the rose garden, I thought of my friend Dan.
I haven’t spoken to Dan for nearly 11 years, and even before that, we
saw each other pretty regularly, about once a decade or so. But last
night I thought about him because of the night.
So many of my memories of him take
place at night. When we were teenagers, we wandered the streets of
our atomic community all night long. We talked about all the things
teenagers would talk about, deeper things, what-ifs and how-comes.
During my walk home, I missed him terribly.
It makes me wonder how my mind
functions. I mean, I just walked away from a job I’d had (more or
less) for 7 and half years, and my thoughts were on a childhood
friend.
I saw a new friend on my way home. I
did not see a car, I did not see any homeless people in the park. I
did not see any lights on in any house. The who neighborhood was
asleep. But I did see Connor. I knew it was him. I saw him in
silhouette at the end of his driveway. I usually see him there. But I
usually see him during the day. He was doing the bob and weave. He
was smoking a cigarette. And he presumably saw me, although I doubt
he knew it was me. He stumbled back up his driveway and I crossed the
street. I really like this guy, but I didn’t want to talk to him. A
few years ago Connor escaped the restaurant business too. He has been
a realtor for the last few years. I still think of him as a
bartender.
Moments later as I got onto my street,
it occurred to me that if I will miss anything, I will miss the
night. I’ve lived my life for so long at night that I just felt heavy
thinking that my new lifestyle is not a night life. I’m comfortable
at night. Especially last night, there wasn’t anything or anyone
stirring other than Connor. The world is peaceful late at night. Even
the sound of traffic is quelled. It wasn’t even eleven o’clock.
My whole life has been at night. I
lived in Denver for fifteen years and I don’t have many memories of
the daytime. It’s always dark, always loosely populated, and filled
with peaceful wonder at every turn.
I realize that a big part of my
nighttime existence is just the way I’m wired. After all, I was up
all night even when I was kid. Somehow, I have to wonder if my
attraction to and my longevity in the service industry has
exaggerated or exacerbated my nocturnal leanings? It doesn’t matter.
I can’t image I’ll be confided solely to daylight hours from here on
out.
Certainly people who work in
restaurants are creatures of the night. Over the years, when I’ve met
non-restaurant people they viewed the night very differently than me.
There are two types of people, I’ve been told. There are those who
say: “It’s only ten o’clock.” And those who say: “Oh, it’s
already ten o’clock.” I know which one I am.