Night Shift

Room 8 is a surprise. Not a good surprise, more like finding five bucks in the pocket of your dirty jeans instead of nothing. The room actually has clean sheets on a sagging double bed, a bathroom where the mold is confined to just the corners, and a small black-and-white TV that picks up three channels if I position the rabbit ears just right.

I lock the door, slide the flimsy chain lock into place, and collapse onto the bed. My new home. The mattress protests with a symphony of squeaks, but after sleeping in an abandoned car, it feels like luxury.

The shower's water pressure fluctuates between "angry garden hose" and "someone spitting from above," but the temperature stays lukewarm long enough to wash away two days of sweat and stress.

I turn on the TV, finding a fuzzy broadcast of the evening news. The anchor discusses President Carter's energy crisis speech while I count my remaining money: $25 in 1978 currency, plus my $60 in future bills that only I can use.

Sleep comes easily, deep and dreamless.

My routine takes shape over the next few days. Work the night shift at Manny's from 10 PM to 6 AM, stumble back to Room 8, sleep until mid-afternoon, then explore 1978 Miami for a few hours before heading back to work.

The convenience store job is mind-numbing but simple. Ring up purchases, stock shelves, mop floors, and stay alert for shoplifters. The mechanical cash register no longer intimidates me. I've mastered its ancient technology, punching physical buttons and pulling the arm to ring up sales.

The night crowd consists mainly of insomniacs, drunk partiers seeking cigarettes, and the occasional desperate parent buying baby formula or diapers. Miami never sleeps, even in 1978.

Manny seems pleased with my work. "You're reliable, José," he tells me on my fourth night. "Last guy was always late, always calling in sick. You show up on time and don't complain."

I nod, accepting the compliment.

During my exploration hours, I wander through neighborhoods that will eventually become million-dollar real estate. South Beach is run-down, filled with elderly Jewish retirees sitting on porches rather than models and celebrities. The Design District is a collection of furniture warehouses, not luxury boutiques.

I pass a newspaper stand and stop to read the headlines. The Miami Herald declares "DRUG WARS ESCALATE" while the business section mentions rising inflation.

On my fifth night at Manny's, just past 2 AM, the bell above the door chimes. I look up from restocking cigarettes behind the counter to see a young Black woman in a bright yellow t-shirt and jeans walk in. She's slender with a short afro, and despite the late hour, moves with energy that immediately fills the store.

She heads straight for the coffee machine, pours herself a large cup, then grabs a packaged honey bun from the snack rack. As she approaches the counter, I notice the dark smudges of cleaning solution on her shirt and the industrial keys hanging from her belt loop.

"Night shift?" I ask as she places her items on the counter.

"Every night, Mr. Midnight Cashier." She has a musical voice and an easy smile. "Office building on 12th. Fifteen floors of executive mess to clean up before the suits arrive at eight."

I ring up her purchases. "$1.15 total."

She digs through her purse, pulling out exact change. As I bag the honey bun, I remember an advertising slogan I'd seen in a magazine earlier that day.

"You know what they say? Honey Buns: The Breakfast of Night Shift Champions."

She laughs, a genuine sound that brightens the fluorescent-lit store. "That's not their slogan!"

"Should be. Way more accurate than whatever they're using."

"I'm Dee," she says, extending her hand across the counter.

"José," I reply, using my new name automatically. Her hand is warm, with calluses that speak of hard work.

"Well, José, you just made the worst part of my night a little better." She takes a sip of coffee and makes a face. "Even if this coffee tastes like motor oil."

"Secret ingredient. Keeps you running all night."

She laughs again. "I'll be back tomorrow to complain if my car starts purring."

I watch her leave, the bell chiming her exit. Something about her energy, her quick wit, makes the store feel emptier in her absence.

The next night, I find myself glancing at the door around 2 AM. When she doesn't show, I feel a surprising disappointment. But at 2:17, the bell chimes, and there she is, this time in a bright blue shirt with the same industrial cleaner stains.

"Motor oil still fresh?" she asks, heading straight for the coffee.

"Brewed it special for you," I reply. "Added some premium unleaded today."

Over the next week, Dee becomes a regular. Always between 2:00 and 2:30 AM, always for coffee and something sweet. I learn she's 21, lives with her mother and younger sister in Overtown, and dreams of being rich someday.

"Not just comfortable," she explains one quiet night while leaning against the counter. "Rich rich. The kind where you don't check price tags."

"Any specific plans for this wealth?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"Plans? I got schemes, honey! Right now I'm thinking mail-order business. Or maybe disco instruction, people are crazy for that right now." She demonstrates a quick dance move that makes me laugh.

"What about you, Mr. Midnight Cashier? You planning to run this place someday?"

I shake my head. "I've got bigger dreams too."

"Look at us," she says, gesturing between us with her coffee cup. "Future millionaires, meeting at 2 AM in a convenience store. They'll put this moment in our biographies."

Her optimism, her hustle, the way she makes the drudgery of night work seem like just a temporary step toward something greater. She doesn't know I've seen the future, but she believes in one anyway.

After she leaves that night, I make a decision. Next time she comes in, I'll ask her out.