Swensons's Sacred Shift

     (I can't help but present the experience I had in the forthcoming way for 'twas as if the gleaming Halls Of Honor demanded my words be fashioned in such a manner. Swenson's Sacred Shift would not have been done justice in the using of ordinary methods of description). 

The opportunity came up and I took it. Swenson had gone on vacation and the guy above me, Clark, in hallowed seniority didn't feel like working so I swooped in and signed my name on the schedule. 

My request was, after the painstaking reviewing of union rules, subsequently approved.

Swenson, let me give you a little background here, is an old, old hand. He probably doesn't know what working nights and weekends are like, it's been so long. He also has perhaps dim and distant memories of staying late to help out the ever-shorthanded night shifters but he, like everyone else, plays all the angles so it's not like he can be faulted for taking advantage of every small, miniscule, or even microscopic way to distance himself from pulling his true weight at the jobsite.

Now Swenson has been spotted coming in earlier, here and there, but when he does (to cover for the absent 'King Of Seniority', a guy named Krueger) he just leaves earlier! It's not like he's helping out, he's helping himself. But, that's his M.O.. (I've got everybody's charted around here). 

It took Swenson many, many years to get to the lofty heights his perch overlooks the jobsite from and he'll never let those under him or any newbies forget it. He has aches and pains, or makes like he does, when he bails out the door ("after a ruff week", as he puts it) on Friday afternoons. N'er on a weekend day is he around. Folks tell me that this is the way things have been since long before I showed up. 

Well, enough about Swenson. Let's get back to where we started, talking about his venerated shift, one that is simultaneously protected like Fort Knox, the secrets of the Vatican, and what actually happened at Area 51. 

Swenson's start time is at 7:00 a.m., and his quittin' time is at 3:00, but Swen (as he's known around here) starts putting his tools away at 2:30 in order to 'tidy up some'. Not in a hurried way, mind you, but in a time killin' way, 'cuz he's eyein' the time clock and doesn't want Chief (the supervisor) to find him waiting in front of the time clock to punch out. 

Studying a layout

Thomas Sweeny- Unsplash.com

Monday through Friday Swen is on the job, that is, unless he's on vacation (he gets more than a month off every year). This guy is hard to take, he's kind of a know it all, but I've managed to avoid him mostly and now here I find myself, driving to work to work his shift at the ungodly hour of 6:00 a.m.! Is this what Swen's day is like every day, driving to work in the pre-dawn darkness? It is. I marvel at the amount of traffic I encounter. Lotta other Swenson's out there! More than I imagined.

Upon arriving at the jobsite, I clock in and station myself at Swen's work area. It's like entering a damn enemy camp! Dayshifters all around eye me warily. They know I'm only a temporary apparition but still, they don't want me to establish any toehold. This is what I'm thinking but a few of them greet me warmly. I'm a breath of fresh air to them, it seems, 'cuz they've had to weather a lot of Swen's gruff attitude and I'm appearing to not be (they're checking) carrying any of that. I'm actually grateful to be at work at such an early hour and that shows, even if the light is awfully bright and the shadows that are being cast are lying in odd directions. 

"So this is what it's like!" think I as I get my tools out and get to work at Swen’s actual work station. It's like holy ground I'm standing upon. Few mortals have ever had the privilege. How have I come to be so blessed?!

As the shift progresses I witness any number of odd, only seen during the day, things. Some of what I see disturbs me, but I say not a word. If I'm ever going to hope to fit in with this crew I'd best be holding my tongue. They've got a system, a hierarchy, a pecking order, a certain flow that has developed over the years, one that has been reluctantly yet continuously modified. Swen has his place in all this and I represent it, but only for a day. Some other employee, also unimaginably blessed, will get to experience Swenson's Sacred Shift tomorrow, for tomorrow I must resume my regular shift on my regularly scheduled day. I wish I could stay, oh I wish it were so, but "Nay!" say The Gods Of Seniority, who rule with ruthless, merciless, and heavy hand. 

"'Tis not fair, the system!" I cry, or think about crying out, but like most of my other thoughts inside the confines of The Company, I keep such matters to myself. Swenson earned his exalted perch through the toil and sweat of many years labor. Who am I to question this, ask for any boon, or beg for lenience when before me sits Swenson's workbench, supremely weathered and worn, ample evidence of Swenson's selfless devotion to those selfsame gods of profit that we all must answer to, in some way or another? Swenson's trek up the mountain was entirely honorable. No greater sacrifice could one give but his life and I must acknowledge that. I must know my place and dare not overstep any bounds. 

And then, alas, alas. As all days do, this one progresses and I find myself once again at the punch clock, holding my time card, about to punch out at the absolutely astounding and utterly amazing time of three o'clock p.m. With trembling hands I steady the card in its receiving slot, then press the machine's button. 'Click!" My time is recorded and I think I ought to frame this particular time card, or take a picture of it, to show to my coworkers, wife, family, and friends, for who will believe that I have worked Swenson's Sacred Shift were I not to provide any evidence? In any case, I am sure to be hotly queried about my pulling off the impossible for Swenson's Sacred Shift is known to all who work at the facility, in most every neighborhood home, at every after-work bar for miles around, by the governors of every adjoining state, and even to a gaggle of ship captains plying the distant and briny seas. 

Soooo glad I got to experience it.

Hostile Territory

I left my hideout wearing the appropriate uniform and carrying an attitude to match it, which would hopefully fool everybody for I was to be an infiltrator this day. Deep within enemy lines I was going to go. 
Dressed as a member of the Operation Center's motor pool, I drove away from my hideout but was tailed near immediately. I was not used to operating during daylight hours and maybe I had already blown my cover so I accelerated coolly but briefly, then pulled over slightly and waved my (now two) tailgaters to pass. They passed me by and kept going- while I breathed a sigh of relief.
Driving towards my objective, the stream of traffic I found myself in was heavier than I had anticipated and it was moving fast so I blended into the pack and matched their speed to remain unnoticed until abruptly peeling off, like they often did, indicating that their (and now my) objective was in sight. I pulled silently into the Operations Center's vast parking lot, and made my way towards the facility.

Just one of the gang

Gabriel Amaral- Unsplash.com

A few officers and some enlisted personnel eyeballed me curiously, or gave me hard stares, as I entered the Operations Center. It was not normal to see ones of my rank checking out equipment at this hour but it occasionally occurred, due to some ranking member being Away On Leave or even AWOL, so even though I was a curiosity, I wasn't challenged. Were I to be, I knew the appropriate lingo to use for I had been studying my target for quite some time. 
Leaving the Operations Center two minutes later, I climbed into a transport, started it, and began to drive. Personnel at the Operations Center Exit Gate eyeballed me for second, then waved me through. I or someone like me had been seen driving a transport before, it was nothing new, though it was unusual to see a motor pool member other than one of the usual few. 
Whew. I was in. Making my rounds between the airport landing site (Adam 17), base (Charlie 16), and a few others, I called in the appropriate radio codes. My voice was unfamiliar to the long-term personnel at the Ops Center but my delivery was flawless for I had practiced calling these radio codes back in my hideout, and due to that, I was not challenged in any way. 
A few hours in, I knew I was likely to ace it because so far, my mission had been a success. I actually found myself getting bored. Infiltrating the OPs Center motor pool had been easy, but I knew I had to stay sharp. Eyes were occasionally on me, studying me, perhaps thinking that I would attempt to return again (should I be so bold) on the morrow. These watching eyes I could not trust for I sensed malice in them and they made me very nervous. I told myself to remain aloof and act natural, but it was difficult. I could feel them scanning me, puzzled as to why I was there, and maybe going so far as to approach me and ask questions, or check the duty roster. I had my alibi at the ready and was prepared at any moment to use it but this game of cat and mouse continued in a tense, unspoken way, neither I nor they giving any clue as to what the next move would be. 
It was in this way that the remainder of my time behind enemy lines passed, until I had gathered up all the resources I had infiltrated the base for. Exiting much the same way I came in, I saw ones of my rank walking my way. I dodged them until I was safely again in the parking lot, lest they accidentally identify me through hailing me in greeting and break my cover. 
Soon I was racing away from the Operations Center, my mission a smashing success! I had achieved my objective-

  Pulling a shift on DAYSHIFT.