Tales From the Midnight Shift Vol. 1

by Mark Allan Gunnells

  “You bought it for a hundred bucks from an ad in the classifieds just two years ago. It has someone else’s history.”

  “Hey, that was all I could afford at the time.”

  “My point exactly. Now you can afford something better.”

  Ross’s eyes darted around the apartment, taking in his thrift store furniture, the peeling paint, the James Dean poster that hid a hole in the wall. “Don’t you think I should use the money to fix this place up a little? I mean, I still have old sheets tacked up over the windows for curtains, for Christ’s sake.”

  “You’re 20 years old, Ross; this kind of bohemian existence is how you’re supposed to be living. Besides, you’re the one who’s always going on about how important your writing is, how your job as the night desk clerk at the Restland Motel is just what you do to pay the bills; writing is what you are. Your words, not mine. So here’s your chance to get a better instrument with which to write. I mean, even ancient man eventually stopped scrawling on cave walls and took up stone tablets. Time to evolve, honey.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t need a new computer. There’s nothing wrong with what I have.”

  “Seriously? Want me to run down a list? One, it’s got a busted modem and can’t hook up to the ‘net—”

  “And I like that. The Internet is just a distraction when I’m trying to write.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s a distraction. Having you call me every time you need some tidbit of information for a story, like how much oxygen the standard SCUBA tank holds or what year the microscope was invented, and asking me to get online to look it up for you.”

  Ross found he didn’t have a response to that one; he’d have to concede that point to Julie.

  “Two, the thing is so old that it doesn’t even have a CD-ROM drive. I don’t even know how the hell you still find 3.5 floppy discs for it?”

  “Okay, okay, I get it. The Big Dog is a dinosaur, but even so…I just can’t get rid of it.”

  “Why not?”

  Ross looked down at the machine with affection, trying to put into words what he was feeling. Since words were his passion, it should have been easy for him, but it was much simpler to think of cool and clever things for imaginary people to say in make-believe situations. “You have to understand, when I bought this laptop two years ago I was still writing my stories out longhand then typing them up later. I had to have been the last person in the known world still using a typewriter. And I’d never sold a single story, not one. Buying this laptop made me feel like a real writer, not like someone playing pretend. And the very first story I wrote on the computer was accepted by the very first magazine I submitted it to. And after that, acceptances just started pouring in.”

  Julie grunted, crossing her arms over her slight bosom and tilting her head. Her appraising look. “And you think the laptop is somehow responsible for your finally seeing some success?”

  “Of course not,” Ross said with an embarrassed laugh. “But I’ve got a real sentimental attachment to the Big Dog. It would be like asking me to put down a beloved pet just because it was past its prime.”

  Julie reached out and patted Ross on the cheek. “That’s sweet, honey. Stupid, but sweet.”

  * * *

  After Julie left, Ross decided to try to get a little writing done before going to bed. He normally did the majority of his writing at work—one of the perks of having a midnight shift job—but he was anxious to get started on a new story. He’d just learned from some friends on Facebook that Knopf was planning an anthology of tales based on late author Greg Nigel’s Vampire Feast series and they were opening it up to general submissions. Ross had grown up on those novels and would love to be a part of the project, but the deadline was only a month away. He needed to get started if he was going to have something ready in time.

  He found it hard to concentrate, though, his eyelids continuing to droop, reminding him that it was past his bedtime. Strange that three in the afternoon was past his bedtime, but his work schedule had wreaked havoc on his internal clock. Usually if he wasn’t in bed by two, he felt like a zombie.

  Saving what little he’d managed to write, Ross grabbed his wallet and pulled out his debit card. The button for the floppy disc drive had fallen off shortly after he’d bought the laptop, so he would slide the thin edge of the card into the slot until it depressed the mechanism that popped the disc out. He’d been using this technique so long, it had ceased to seem strange to him, much like the way he’d have to turn on the oven with a pair of pliers ever since the knob fell off, but now…

  “Julie’s right,” he mumbled to himself, fingering the keys in a loving caress. “It’s time to upgrade.”

  * * *

  Thrifty Joe’s was the name of the place, a small consignment shop only a few blocks from Ross’s apartment. He’d actually gotten his coffee table there and often bought books from their secondhand selection. But today he wasn’t at Thrifty Joe’s to shop but to donate.

  “We don’t get a lot of computers in,” said the man behind the counter, whose nametag identified him as Ray. Ross noted the long gray hair pulled back into a ponytail, the small hoop earrings, and the hemp vest, and recognized Ray as one of those rare children of the 60s that never traded in their peace sign and ideals for a BMW and cushy office job. Ross wasn’t sure if he thought that was commendable or sad.

  Ray ripped open the Velcro of the carrying case and slid the laptop out onto the countertop, whistling at the sight of it. “Wow, this thing’s a real antique, ain’t it?”

  Ross felt himself bristle, not liking the way the hippie was handling or talking about the Big Dog. Then he told himself, let it go, just let it go…

  “It’s old, but it’s a good machine. Reliable.”

  “No doubt, no doubt. You don’t have any personal information still on here, do you? No financial records or anything?”

  “No, it’s clean.”

  It had been more painful than Ross expected, deleting all his stories from the computer. They were all on there, dating all the way back to “In the Heart of the Sun,” the first story he ever wrote on the Big Dog, also his first sale. Of course, he’d managed to find an external floppy disc drive to go along with the new laptop he’d picked up from Best Buy yesterday so he could transfer all his stories onto the new machine, but it just wasn’t the same somehow.

  Not that he didn’t like the new Dell laptop. It was basic, few bells and whistles, but it seemed pretty fancy to Ross. So much so that it seemed to clash with the décor of his apartment.

  “You want a receipt for the donation?” Ray asked.

  “Huh?”

  “A receipt. You can claim donations as a deduction on your taxes, you know.”

  “That’s okay.”

  They stood there for another minute, separated by the counter, Ray staring at Ross, Ross staring down at the computer, his Big Dog. Finally Ray slid the machine back inside the carrying case. “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  Still Ross didn’t move right away, and when he did start toward the door, he felt a tightness in his chest. He was being silly, and he knew it. It was just an inanimate object, not like he was losing a limb or a loved one. Yet knowing it was silly didn’t make the sense of loss any less real.

  Risking being turned into a pillar of salt, Ross looked back once before leaving the shop and bid a silent farewell to his old friend.

  * * *

  “Fuck it all to hell!” Ross exclaimed, pushing himself away from the check-in desk in the motel’s cramped cube of an office. He didn’t bother to lower his voice; it wasn’t like there was anyone around to hear and object to his language. It was half past four in the morning, and he hadn’t had a single person check in since the start of his shift and no calls or complaints from any of the guests. Which was how it was most nights. If the position paid more than just a pittance, it would be the perfect job.

  Glaring balefully at the glowing laptop on
the desk, Ross walked over to the coffee maker and poured himself a cup. It was lukewarm but the jolt of caffeine was much needed. He felt a headache needling its way behind his eyes, and he wished he had some Ibuprofen with him.

  He jumped and nearly spilled his coffee on himself when his cell phone rang in his front pocket. Sitting his cup down on the desk, he pulled out the phone and flipped it open.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, Rossy, what’s shaking?”

  “Julie? What on earth are you doing up this early?”

  “Are you kidding? It’s Friday night—”

  “Technically it’s Saturday morning.”

  “Whatever. Point is, I haven’t been to bed yet. Me and some of the girls from work went to this new dance club over in Columbia. Pretty happening place.”

  “Do people still use ‘happening’ anymore?”

  “Fine, it was rocking, banging, slamming, smoking, off the chain, off the hook, phat with a capital PH, whatever the cool kids are saying these days.”

  Ross laughed, dropping back into his chair. “So you just decided to call and rub my face in the fact that you’re out whooping it up while I’m stuck here at work?”

  “Basically, yes.”

  “You’re such a bitch.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “So, you meet any hot guys at the club?”

  “Gave out my number to a few, now we’ll just have to wait and see if any of them call. How about you? Any dark and sexy hunks check in and ask you for ‘room service’?”

  “Julie, how many times do I have to tell you, life is not like the gay porns make it seem. We don’t all just whip it out and go at it at the drop of a hat.”

  “How disappointing. So what, you’ve just been sitting there banging away at the computer all night, I take it?”

  Ross sighed then reached out and closed his laptop, shoving it away. “Trying…not succeeding, but trying.”

  “Poor baby, still have writer’s block?”

  “I told you, I don’t believe in writer’s block. It’s just a cop-out. It’s not that I haven’t been writing, it’s just that everything I’ve written lately…”

  “Sucks?”

  “Well, actually yes.”

  “I’m sure you’re just being overly critical of yourself, as usual.”

  “I just can’t seem to make this story work. Not a single element is falling into place, not the characters or the plot or the atmosphere. I’ve been giving it my all for weeks now, and I’m about to pull my hair out.”

  “This is that thing for the vampire anthology, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  “I’m sorry, I think I missed a step.”

  “You’re trying to write a story in someone else’s style using someone else’s characters. If you ask me, it’s only reasonable that you’d be having trouble.”

  “I don’t know. You really think that’s what it is?”

  “Of course. You’re a creative person, you want to be doing something original. Trying to work in a world created by some other writer must feel like you’re just doing glorified fanfic or something.”

  “Yeah…maybe. In any case, the deadline is next Wednesday, so it doesn’t look like I’m going to have anything to submit anyway.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up about it. They’ll be plenty more opportunities, I’m sure. Just scrap what you have and work on something wholly yours and the creative juices will be flowing again in no time.”

  Ross found himself smiling and mused that Julie was better than a whole bottle of Ibuprofen. “What are you now, my life coach?”

  “God knows you need one, you’re such a sqaz.”

  “Well, luckily I have you to keep me in line.”

  “And it’s a thankless job, let me tell you. As a matter of fact, all this supportive friend crap has left me simply exhausted.”

  “You sure it wasn’t the dancing until all hours of the morning that caused that?”

  “Um, no, pretty sure it was having to placate your insecure ass. Now I’m going to hit the hay.”

  “Sure thing. Talk to you tomorrow…well, later today I guess.”

  “Make that much much later today.”

  Ross flipped his phone closed and smiled down at it, as if it were an extension of his friend. Julie certainly had a way of lifting his spirits.

  But when he glanced over at the Dell, he felt the first pangs of anxiety reasserting themselves.

  * * *

  Julie had been banging on the door and calling his name for five minutes before Ross finally conceded that she wasn’t going to give up and go away. He rolled out of bed and stumbled across the apartment, kicking aside some empty soda cans as he went. He wore only a pair of sweat pants, and his hair was sticking up in the back like a Chinese fan. He opened the door just a few inches and squinted against the assault of sunlight. “What?” he said curtly.

  Standing with her hands on her hips and her lips pursed until they almost disappeared altogether, Julie looked simultaneously relieved and furious. “Well, at least you’re not dead. Although you sort of look like you might be. Can I come in?”

  In lieu of an answer, Ross just turned away and headed back for his bed, leaving the door open. Julie followed him inside. The apartment was a disaster area; dirty dishes piled in the sink, clothes thrown over just about every piece of furniture, the floor a maze of pizza boxes and fast food containers. “What’s going on here, Mr. Grumpy Pants?”

  Ross stretched out on the mattress, his back to his friend. “I’m trying to sleep, in case you couldn’t tell.”

  “I thought you were off tonight.”

  “Yes, but I worked last night so I’m tired. But I guess certain inconsiderate assholes don’t think about things like that.”

  “Well, excuse the hell out of me. I haven’t heard from you in four days, so I was naturally a little worried. You haven’t answered any of my calls and haven’t returned a single voicemail.”

  “What are you, my mother? I have to check in with you every hour or something?”

  Ross tensed when he felt Julie settle on the edge of the bed. “Seriously, what’s wrong? We’ve been friends since we were twelve years old, and it’s not like you to not confide in me when something’s bothering you. And something’s obviously bothering you.”

  He hesitated another moment before rolling over. He felt tears threatening, but he blinked them back. Taking a shuddering breath, he said, “I’ve lost it.”

  “Lost what? If you’re talking virginity, I think that announcement’s about three years too late. Although it has been so long since you went out with anyone that it might have grown back.”

  Ross sat up, pulling his legs up to his chest and wrapping his arms around his knees. “I can’t write.”

  Julie looked toward the desk. “Is something wrong with the new computer?”

  “No…or yes. Or maybe there’s just something wrong with me. I don’t know.”

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  “What’s the opposite of the Midas touch?” Ross said with a dry bark of a laugh, a sound totally devoid of humor. “Where everything you touch turns to shit?”

  “I take it you’re still having a bout of writer’s bl—I mean, you’re still struggling with your writing?”

  Now the tears did flow; Ross couldn’t dam them back. “It’s shit, it’s all shit. Everything I try just falls apart. I can’t even finish anything. I must have started a dozen different stories in the past week, and they’ve all just fizzled and I abandoned them. Didn’t even save most of those false starts because they’re just not worth saving.”

  Julie reached out and placed a hand over one of Ross’s. “Honey, you’ve been through periods of self-doubt before, and you always work through it.”

  “This is different. I mean, yes, I’ve had doubts about specific stories in the past, but I never questioned that I had talent. But now…”

  “What, you thin
k your talent just evaporated?”

  “I don’t know,” Ross said, running his hands through his greasy hair. “It’s like I’ve lost the ability to tell a good story, like I’ve forgotten how to write.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You’re going through a slump, that’s all.”

  “Maybe…or maybe it’s something else.”

  “Like what?”

  Ross opened his mouth to say something but then hesitated, feeling his face flush with heat. “Just…never mind. It’s nothing.”

  Julie sighed and gave him that look that said he could hide nothing from her, no matter how hard he might try. “Please tell me you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.”

  “I haven’t been able to write anything worth a damn since I got rid of the Big Dog.”

  “Oh honey, that old piece of shit laptop didn’t create the stories. You do that.”

  “But maybe it’s a combination, me and the computer working as a team. I mean, think about it. My writing didn’t really seem to gel until I started working on the Big Dog, and now that it’s gone, it’s like the well has run dry or something.”

  “Ross, are you listening to yourself? What you’re saying is crazy.”

  “No, it’s not. I mean, yes, I know it sounds crazy, but I’ve been over this a million times, and I can’t come up with any other explanation.”

  “Show me.”

  “What?”

  “You say your writing has turned to shit since you got the new laptop, so show me. Let me read something you’ve written recently.”

  “I told you, I didn’t even save most of it.”

  “But you must have saved something, so let me see.”

  Reluctantly Ross climbed back out of bed and turned on the laptop. The old Extensa had taken a good ten minute to fully boot up, but the Dell took only seconds. On the desktop, he opened the folder marked “IN PROGRESS” and selected one of the stories he’d started then abandoned over the past few days. His stomach fluttered as if he were on a rollercoaster taking a steep hill at breakneck speed. He always let Julie read his stuff, he valued and welcomed her opinions more than most anyone else, so he didn’t know why suddenly the prospect of her analyzing his writing should leave him such a nervous wreck. Perhaps he just didn’t want her confirming what he already knew.