Molly Tumanic

Sometimes it’s classic 1980s rock, sometimes it’s country western and sometimes it’s a less than ambient mixture of something between polka and circus music. Whatever it is, it’s earsplitting – the kind of 3 a.m. loudness that makes you want to do one of two things: die from a migraine or burst out laughing.

I’m not talking about a tame night at She-Nan’s where you end up sneaking out the back door instead of bearing another minute witnessing alcohol seep through the pores of people you’d never normally talk to in a sober state. I’m referring to sounds coming from Hibbard Hall during the time of night when newborns and grandparents already have had a solid five or so hours of sleep.

For any of you who have seen or heard the boom box and its blaring tunes sitting atop the first floor bubbler in Hibbard Hall: Congratulations. You probably get even less sleep than I do (I’ll see you in the heart attack rehabilitation center when we’re 32 years old.).

But for those eight-hour-a-nighters, yes, that’s right, the third-shift custodians have a little dance party of their own. And here at The Spectator, we’re awake to see it all.

I wouldn’t go as far to say that our first interview question in order to be on staff is, “Are you capable of being an insomniac?” But, if you ever find yourself on campus at 2 a.m. and you simply need someone to talk to, stop by the office.

Some of us are drugged up on caffeine while others are doing cool little jig dances to keep the oxygen flowing to our brains. A few have sworn they’ve seen the apocalypse coming. I think I’ve even seen staffers saying their bedtime prayers on the couch in the photographer’s office.

But after hearing the mysterious music piercing the hallways night after night, I decided to see what kind of people actually are chillin’ inside Hibbard well beyond 9 to 5.

I began wandering the halls right around the hour Jay Leno is giving his opening monologue and stopped at about the time Water Street is covered with inebriated undergrads.

Let’s begin with the custodians. I walked by Hibbard 101, glanced in, and saw a middle-aged woman with a Vac-Pak cleaning the carpet. As she turned off her vacuum, I introduced myself and took a seat in one of the lecture chairs. Come to find out, this sweet lady named Diane actually was retiring within a matter of minutes – her days as a custodian ended at midnight Wednesday.

“Surprisingly, I like it,” she said of working third shift. She worked 10:30 p.m. to 7 a.m. “Parking is free, too, at night.”

Bless your big heart, Diane. Finding the positives of working third shift isn’t easy to do.

Maybe it was the fact that I was 18 years old, but I worked third shift at a cheese factory for a summer, and the only plus I found in playing with dairy products at 4 a.m. was meeting some pretty interesting prisoners – co-workers of mine on work release.

For me, there was no greater pain than the pain of my brain while driving home at 7 a.m.

According to drowsydriving.org, a survey of shift workers and day workers at a manufacturing plant showed shift workers experience greater fatigue and more sleep-related car crashes during waking hours. Personally, I’ve never had a car crash – due to tiredness, at least – but one afternoon I remember waking up on my bedroom floor in my cheese-stained, white uniform. It was then I decided third shift wasn’t for me.

Not everyone is the same. According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, about 15.5 million people have work schedules that conflict with their biological clocks.

But there were more people than custodians within the walls of Hibbard. I walked up to Hibbard 201 and found one lone ranger in the computer lab. As I approached him, he gave me a look as if to say, “Are you seriously going to talk to me?” Soon enough, a smile broke through his sleepy face. I asked the finance major what he was doing in the computer lab at half past ten, and he held up his Physics book and said, “My eyes are hurting.”

He told me he likes to get work done later at night because campus is “so busy during the day.”

So, there you have it. As I was driving home, I saw a man who chose to spend his night … umm … not in Hibbard Hall, let’s say. Stumbling through the intersection of Water Street and First Street, he tried to mount his bike. He failed miserably. The man collapsed in the grass and simply laid there. It actually made me turn my car around to see if he was OK. No worries – I realized it was just a case (or two) of the Water Street flu.

But what I discovered was this: There are some interesting people awake in the wee morning hours and most of the night owls, such as Diane, are more than willing to talk.

“Happy retirement,” I said to her as I left Hibbard 101.

“Well, thank you,” she said with a beaming smile. “Good luck on your career.”