An Ode to the Early Morning Workers

My alarm went off at 4:00 a.m. the other morning, an unholy hour in any case made worse by the alarm tone I unwittingly chose, a sound that I can only describe as the screeching robotic noises assigned to a spaceship in a 1950s sci-fi movie. 

Even the dogs didn't want to get out of bed.

“We’re going back to the lookout!” I said excitedly, flipping on the lights,  “Remember? No leashes? All-day chipmunk chasing?” They just glowered at me through half-lidded eyes, noses tucked under their paws.

It takes effort for me to muster enthusiasm before sunrise. I’m more familiar with the small hours of morning coming at them from the other side. I worked the night shift for years as a nurse and I still have a 4:00 alarm saved on my phone, though it’s for 4 p.m., not a.m.  I haven’t deleted it for some reason, the way people don’t get rid of pants that are too small, thinking they’ll fit back into them someday.  

We’d come to town from the fire lookout for a dental appointment (mine) and a vet appointment (theirs) the day before, and my dogs had acted inconvenienced the entire time. You’re keeping us from important business up on the mountain, lady.  

Even when I promised them early that next morning that we were headed back to dog paradise, they loaded up in the truck grudgingly, giving me the stink eye. This might be a little bit like having two teenagers.

This reminds me to tell you about Birdie. If you’ve been following my column you already know Jack, my little white dog who is 2% St. Bernard, but I realize I haven’t told you about Birdie, who  joined our pack in early June. According to her recent DNA test, Birdie’s a mix of about ten breeds: Shar Pei, German Shepherd, Lab, and Australian Cattle Dog, to name a few. The report also states she’s 3% St. Bernard, beating out Jack by a whole percentage point. Unbelievable. I am starting to wonder if these doggie DNA people just throw in St. Bernard when the numbers don’t add up to 100. 

There is something I love about the dim, pre-dawn hours claimed by delivery drivers, bakers, hospital workers, and newspaper printers. It feels like backstage access to, well, real life.  It’s when street sweeping, snow plowing, mail sorting, oil refining, and stocking of grocery shelves happen, things most of us only see in terms of the final result.

Ever wonder how those potholes get mysteriously filled? Take a cruise before sunrise on a summer day and follow the smell of asphalt; you’ll find a crew of folks in reflective vests making things nice for you. I’d always wondered how the hanging baskets of petunias downtown stay so lush and beautiful until that morning I drove down Higgins Avenue and witnessed a water truck tooling along with someone dressed in coveralls, wielding a long spray wand and giving the flowers a predawn drink. It was like seeing the Tooth Fairy, or the Easter Bunny.

At a stoplight, a man entered the crosswalk carrying what looked like a small lunch cooler. He wasn’t wearing headphones, wasn’t staring at a glowing rectangle in the palm of his hand, but but he was singing. Beautifully. He nodded and smiled at me as he passed, singing his way to work, or maybe singing his way home.

I might have missed him, or the person watering the flowers if it had been broad daylight when it’s easier for even remarkable things to blend in. But without the daytime noise and distractions, small details are so much sharper, more juicy, the way lilacs, orange blossoms, and all blooming things are more fragrant under the quiet cover of night.

I’d gotten 50 miles down the road  before I realized I was still wearing my pajama bottoms, which, to be fair, could pass for regular pants. What’s the difference, really? Right or wrong, public wearing of pajama pants seems to be a thing these days. 

Something on the horizon almost made me slam on the brakes: a huge orange disc that looked like Charlie Brown’s Great Pumpkin, or a Phillips 76 sign trying to slide off the face of the earth. Turned out to be the setting moon, nearly full, which reminded me that my gas tank was nearly empty.

I pulled into one of the combination gas station/convenience store/casinos that are ubiquitous in Montana, and are all named Lucky-something. I just felt lucky I hadn’t run out of gas with two dogs, posing as sullen teens, in the truck.

 After filling up, I indulgently roamed the aisles inside the store. Those big, truck stop convenience stores fascinate me, especially in the wee hours when the oddities are in sharp focus. Mislaid items like a quart of oil in the cooler with the energy drinks, a package of cotton swabs stuck into the postcard rack, a half-empty bag of Funyuns discarded in the aisle where trucker accessories like CB radio cables, and hot water kettles you can plug into a cigarette lighter live. What is it, I wonder, that makes someone decide against the Vienna sausages and set the can down on a display of back scratchers that look like they double as bottle openers? Probably the same thing that makes me buy Flamin’ Hot Cheetos before sunrise, even though I get a migraine just looking at the bag. 

“Still Life with Vienna Sausages.”

I grabbed a bottle of wine to add to my pile of poor choices, thinking it might make for a fancy dinner, paring nicely with the canned tuna, macaroni, and chili beans I live on up at the lookout.

The cashier looked over his shoulder at the big red numbers on the digital clock that said 6:42, then slid the bottle of wine out of sight beneath the counter and said to me in a monotone, “Sorry, I can’t sell alcohol until 8 a.m.” 

I felt my face catch fire and go as red as the Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

The card reader was malfunctioning, so the cashier had to enter my credit card by hand. As he tapped the number keys, I asked nervously, regrettably, “So, what time is your shift over?” which, combined with the wine, pajama bottoms, and my aimless aisle wandering, could have come across as a proposition. Had he seen me take the photo of the Vienna sausages and back scratchers? Either way, it all spelled out nutcase.

“Seven,” he said, looking back over his shoulder at the digital clock that now read 6:43. “Seventeen more minutes,” he sighed heavily, looking ashen, ready to collapse.

Even as an avowed night owl, I understand how staying alert in the hours after 4 a.m. can be torture, how by the end of a shift your limbs are filled with concrete, and your insides gurgle with acid from the coffee and food you’ve given your body in lieu of sleep.

“Oh, I get it,” I told him, “I was a night shift nurse for a long time.” 

“You’re a nurse?” He brightened, handing me back my credit card. He rolled up his sleeve and pointed to a very fresh tattoo of a bloody dagger and a skull with flames shooting out of its eye sockets. “Does this look infected?” he asked, pointing to the blood dripping from a dagger that spelled out someone’s name. Other than that, the tattoo looked normal to me. 

“Nope,” I said, “looks good.”

“It itches,” he said, so I squinted, leaning in for a closer look.

“That’s normal,” I said with a nurse’s conviction, “totally normal.” He seemed relieved. I guess he saw me as credible, despite evidence that indicated otherwise.

On my way out the door with a big cup of coffee, snacks, and the can of Vienna Sausages for the dogs, I chirped, “Good night!” the way the day-shifters would on their way into work as we zombie night nurses stumbled out into the blinding daylight. I always appreciated that courtesy, they way they legitimized sunrise as our bedtime.

Back in the truck, the dogs were impatient, indignant even. What took you so long, lady? The Vienna sausages quickly changed their tune. Besides, the sun was coming up, we had a full tank of gas, and there was a mountaintop waiting for us.

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