Ten Zero

"All clear, you're good to go!" I say to the elderly gentleman in his car. To be entirely fair, I don't really know that he's good to go; I can barely tell what someone's picture looks like on their ID when then hold it up, and you can only lean so far out of the guard booth before you fall head first onto the concrete below. But stopping every single person who passes through, and physically grabbing their ID so that I could mean-mug them not only leads to upset workers, but also isn't a generally efficient way to operate a guard shack. Did they hold the ID up while coming up to the window, with the practiced motions of someone's whose been through the routine 100's of times before? Did they creep forward before I had a chance to even really look at it, because they already know I'm gonna let them through just like last time? Did they greet me by name? Then they're probably good.

I hit the red gate arm button and wave as the worker throws his ID badge onto the seat next to him, a dull look in his eye. "Thanks Antimony," he says, as he pulls away from the window. There's always the chance that this guy is actually some super spy, here to steal vital scientific research from the facility I was supposedly guarding. It would explain how he knew my name, but the look in his eye said less 'corporate espionage' and more 'I wish I was literally anywhere else right now', and that sort of misery isn't something you can fake. You can only earn that monotony through tens of thousands of hours of working the same job, day in, day out, with nothing ever changing. And, if by some miracle I actually am just being bamboozled by some incredible acting skills, well, he can go ahead and do whatever espionage he wants. I'd imagine he needs the money to pay his acting coach.

Turning my attention to the singular road in front of me, I hum along to the funky tunes from J3N2000, waiting for someone to show up. Some people might've found the amount of downtime in a security position boring, or even frustrating, but I always found it pleasant. I don't have a supervisor breathing down my neck, nor do I have to worry about being run ragged after work. I'd already worked a job in food service, as well as a job as a CSR (aka, a grocery store clerk), and I can't say I enjoyed working with the general public. While I still have to interact with people daily as a security guard, the facility I'm guarding is a research lab, so generally I interact with the same set of people every day; mostly scientists, a handful of facility workers, and sometimes some delivery drivers. By and large that meant that not only am I able to build a rapport with most people that pass through the gate, but they are also usually pretty intelligent, which is more than I'd say for the general public.

"Put-put-put your head out..." I mumble, as I watch the sun slowly dip beneath the treeline at the end of the street. There is also only 30 minutes left in my shift, which is probably a large contributor to my good mood as well. As another car begins pulling up, I adjust my chair, swiveling towards the window so that I'd be able to reach the gate button, as well as be within range to view the ID that I would be shown. However, as I watch the gate cameras, I see the car slow to a crawl, and finally, stop part way up the road. "Another one", I think to myself, as I roll my chair back to in front of the computer. Sometimes people would try to get... somewhere, and end up in front of our gate, confused. It's a private road, and there's no way to even pass through it to get to somewhere else, since the whole facility is fenced off. But even with all of that, we still get people who would pull up with the intent to 'just pass through' to get where they were going. They usually figure it out without needing me to let know, but sometimes the PRIVATE ROAD and NO THRU ROAD and RESTRICTED PROPERTY signs are not enough to dissuade people and I have to gently redirect them to a main road.

That doesn't seem to be what was happening here though. The car hasn't moved for nearly 30 seconds, and since there's still sunlight out, the car didn't pull up with their headlights on; I wasn't even sure if the car was still running or not. I slowly begin to stand, my view shifting between the gate camera, and the wall length window, on the off chance that the camera is frozen or malfunctioning. I stand there for another ten seconds, but neither the car or it's occupant make any indication that they are planning to move, and I know I need to go talk to them. There is, unfortunately, one downside to working security at this location, and that's the protesters.

Now, at a high enough level, I can understand why they are protesting. This is a research facility, and as we live in the 21st century and don't perform said research on humans, we use our closest animal analog, monkeys. Protesters are upset that said research is happening on monkeys. But to pretend the issue ended there is willfully ignorant. They are literally working on developing a cure to cancer. Breast cancer, specifically. A few years ago, they were even a major contributor in developing the vaccines for COVID. Also, the monkeys are treated well, from what I could tell. Again, as a security guard I don't have the best insight into the treatment and care of a rhesus monkey, but my few glimpses into their day to day seemed to check all the boxes one might worry about. They have outside pens (unless it was too hot/too cold, in which case they have indoor pens), they are fed regularly, bathed regularly (although it could stand to be a bit more often), and since I've started working I haven't heard of a single monkey dying. I assume they do, occasionally, but when I was being given my initial tour, they explained that it's actually quite hard to get your hands on monkeys, whether due to funding or transportation or whatnot, and so they'd prefer to keep them alive, if at all possible. And all of this is ignoring that these people are trying find a cure for cancer, which usually comes from a place of empathy.

So, when 2 or 3 protesters would stand outside the gate, holding signs that said something along the lines of 'No Animal Testing' or 'Let Them Free', I often found myself doing my best to bite my tongue. "I understand your concerns,", I'd say. "We have monthly tours if you're worried about the treatment of the animals," I'd say. "No, we aren't a secret monkey butchery farm, and selling the meat off to Sysco," I'd say. But the kind of person who drives out to a well established vaccine research facility to protest by themselves is not the kind of person who is going to listen to 'The Man'. Or, the woman, in this case. But the job description's pretty clear, so I make my over to the door, shove my shoulder against it (they keep promising to get the door frame fixed and they keep not doing it), and start to make my way down the street, doing my best to look as non confrontational as possible.

"Hey there!" I say with a wave, squinting into the sunlight. "Need any help? Car break down? I can give you a jump, if you need," I ramble off as I make my way down the street towards the now clearly turned off car. I make sure that I'm positioned so that I can maneuver out of the way if they decide to suddenly try to run me down, and take my time as I approach the driver side window. With the glare in my eyes, and the unlit interior of the car, I'm unable to see it's occupant until I'm a mere foot away from the reflective silver paneling of the door. My music switches over to Queztacotl by deadmau5, but I put it on pause. A good song, but I figure it's better to have my full attention on this interaction than to potentially mishear something and cause the situation to escalate. The man in the car looks at me, but I still can't get a clear view of his face. I have his attention though, so I do the universal 'roll your window down' hand sign and take a step back. "Hey man," I ask, as the window passes it's halfway point. "Having car troubles?" He gives me a look as though I'm stupid, and his eyes briefly flick down, then back up. Was he... trying to look down my shirt? Or... no, he probably just wanted to see what I was carrying. Which in this case, is a big fat nothing, as the security company I work for doesn't arm me. They do have armed positions, I just don't happen to be one of them, for whatever reason.

When talking to friends and family (and occasionally strangers) about the fact that I'm an unarmed security guard, I get a lot of responses, usually along the lines of "Oh but how will you protect yourself?", which I usually follow up with "Same way I do on a day to day basis". Like most conflict, I solve it with words, because we are (or at least pretend to be) a civilized society in the 21st century, and I don't generally find the need to sort my disputes with the smoking barrel of a gun. Sure, there's a time and place for weapons, but hot take, I don't think security guards is it, unless you're guarding a bank vault or something similar. In my case, however, I find it easier to interact with people when they don't think that I might shoot them, and today seems to be another one of those cases. "I'm here for the protest," he mumbles, failing to make eye contact. I see the signs on the passenger seat; ALL LIFE MATTERS it proudly claims. "I wonder if that sign is pulling double duty", I think to myself, as I look at the template of every man whose ever called me a slur. That being said, I've got the magic symbol sitting on my chest, a sign a of 'authority', and I was confident that at the first sign of pressure this man would crumple like a wet paper towel. "Oh, that's... odd," I say, looking around at the empty street. "Are you sure you're at the right place? There's no one here protesting; this is a research facility with a bunch of red blooded americans doing their absolute darndest to save lives," as I give him my best guileless face. I watch as his face moves through a number of different expressions, as though fighting to determine whether or not he was offended by what I said. "I may have laid it on a bit thick", I think, as his expression finally lands on derision.

"That's just what they want you to think. This is actually the work of satan; the researching is just a front. They are actually trying to extend the lives of the liberal elite by using the blood of aborted babies. You think they're shipping in monkey's but they're actually shipping in fetuses!" By the time he finishes his statement, the man is red in the face, and nearly out of breath from his exclamation. I give him a moment, and do my best to look like I'm really thinking hard about what he said. If I were to just brush him off immediately, then he'd think that I was part of the problem, and he would straight up ignore anything else I'd say from that point on. "Really?" I start off, "if you're sure about this then..." I look around, as though making sure I wouldn't be overheard, then lean in close. "I hadn't heard about any of this. Here's what I can do. I have full access to the entire facility," I state, reaching for my key card to show him. I'm totally lying, of course, and only have access to maybe 75% of the facility. But the man doesn't know that, and confidence and perceived authority will get you everywhere. "How's about I... look into this, and then, when I find some evidence, I can get in touch with you, yea? I'll take some photo's, some video, and then we can take this to Fox-", but he cuts me off before I can finish. "Truth Social! You can't trust the media these days." He says, as he reaches for his phone. "Right, right, that's a great point. Here, give me your phone number, and I'll text you the photos and videos once I've got conclusive evidence," I say, as I watch his expression. I can tell he's coming around to the idea, and to be entirely fair, I never did lie to him. I just wasn't going to end up finding any evidence of blood rituals or aborted fetuses, so I wasn't ever going to be able to send him anything. It's clear, however, that the man feels like he's got someone on the 'inside' now, and he can go home rather than protest. So he gives me his Truth Social username, as well as his full legal name (thanks so much Mark Harnsby), and starts to turn around. I make sure to give him some room (just in case he has a last minute change of mind on running me over) and as he drives off, I start to make my way back to the guard shack.

Not every encounter with a protester is usually that... flavorful, but if I can sort the situation quickly and easily, then I don't care what part I need to play. I'd rather just swallow my ego than to try to die on this hill, because to be frank, it's just not that great of a hill. At the end of the day, it's just a job, and while I do agree with what the scientists are doing, I just don't care strongly enough to get into a shouting match with a stranger over inane bullshit. Plus, I'd get in trouble for it. Having the security company's logo prominently displayed on your arm means that if I was to be filmed doing anything that could get the company in trouble, I would absolutely be hearing about it later, even if I didn't give anyone my name. There was even a video I saw during training where that exact situation happened, and as one might expect, he is no longer working with us.

I finally make it back to the guard shack, and press the touch sensitive bluetooth headphone to get my music started up again. The electronic tones of this newest release start pulsing through my headset, and I start packing up my stuff as I bob my head to the beat. The whole interaction with the man didn't take more than ten minutes, but my shift replacement is usually early rather than late, so there's a good chance I'm going to see him pulling up any moment. With my laptop in it's bag, and the charging cable wrapped up next to it, I sit back down in the chair and wait for the dark blue Nissan leaf to arrive. I barely finish the song that I'm listening to before I see a car turn down near the end of the street. As I watch it approach, the light glares off the top of the car until finally it's close enough for me to see the reflective blue paint I was keeping an eye out for. "Hey," says my replacement, flashing his badge, not that I needed to see it. I give him the 'hey' nod back, having already pressed the gate arm button, so he barely needs to slow down as he passes by the shack and goes to park. A few minutes later, he's made his way back from the parking lot and into the guard shack.

"'Sup. Anything interesting happen?" he asks, setting his bag and security jacket on the back of the secondary chair in the office. I chuckle, and he looks at me with the knowing look of a routine being broken. "Yea? Is the gate ghost still acting up?" he hazards, trying to see from my face if his guess was right. "It is, actually, but that's not what I was thinking. Literally 10 minutes ago I had a fantastic conversation with a gentleman about the secret operations of this facility. Did you know we process human fetuses here?" I say, doing my best to keep a straight face. "Oh! That's news to me. What are we doing with 'em?" He says, going along with the bit. "I'll be honest, I've already forgotten. It was either part of a satanist ritual, or to keep the liberal elite alive forever. But don't worry, I've got his Truth Social. We can get in touch with him once we've cracked this conspiracy wide open!" As I finish the sentence, I crack a smile, and my shift replacement gives one back. He doesn't run into protesters since he works the night shift, but like me he's worked in customer service before this job, so it's easy to empathize.

"Seriously though, we're all clear. No alarms, nothing to note. It's my Friday, so I'll see you in a few days," I let him know, as I gather my bag and make my way out the side door. "Yea no prob, see you then," he says as he gives me a lazy wave, already focused on getting through setup for his shift. I head to my car, excited to get home and have a few drinks since I'm not working the following day. On the drive home, I plug my phone into my adapter, which plugs into another adapter, which plugs into the aux cable, which is attached to the cassette player. My wife calls it 'adapter-ception' but I call it 'functional' and don't think much about it. The car was my grandfather's, and when he passed I got it for free, which is definitely a hard deal to pass up. I didn't have the money to swap out the stereo with a newer one at the time, so I just bought a cheap adapter, but then realized that the adapter would also need an adapter since my phone didn't have a headphone port anymore. I could probably afford to replace it now, it's not worth the effort since it lets me play music through my car, and that's all I need it do. If I was planning on spending money, I'd rather spend it on the tinny speakers instead. They don't quite have the kick I'm looking for when listening to bass-heavy music, such as the current song, Infraliminal.

As I'm pulling up to the driveway, I take a look around to see if my wife's car is here, or if I'm going to miss her again. Since our schedule's don't quite line up, there's quite a few days where I'll finish work, and then I wouldn't see her until I'd already been home for four hours, or when we'd fall asleep together, but then I'd have to leave early in the morning while she was still sleeping. It's not ideal, but you make do when you're focused on keeping a roof over your head, and having experienced homelessness before, I wasn't eager to repeat the process. Unfortunately, it doesn't look like she's around; it's possible she is at D&D, but I can never remember unless I physically check a calendar, so I just shrug and park the car. As I make my way inside the house, I give a wave to our roommate who is hanging out in the living room. "Hey, do we still have drinks in the fridge?" I ask, setting my stuff down on the dining room chair closest to me. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure we do. Check the shelf on the door," he says, without looking away from him game of the week. I look, and we do still have a few 11% beers left, so I grab one and make my way over to the stairs. "Still Elden Ring?" I ask, as I watch him roll dodge around 'Adan, Thief of Fire'. "More like game of the month, at this rate," he says after a moment, intense focus on his face. "That's a good thing though, right? Who doesn't want more game?" I ask, watching him desperately drink his... health potion? I think? "....yeah," he mutters after a moment. It's clear he's pretty engaged and I'm not going to get much more out of him, so I leave him be, and make my way up to my room.

Once there, I take the opportunity to kick back in my chair and open up Youtube. My phone automatically connects to my computer and the music I was listening to starts blaring out of the speakers, so I reach over and turn it down, then switch back over to the browser tab and start scrolling through my subscriptions to look for something to watch. While I'm scrolling with one hand, I use my other to crack open the drink I had placed on my desk, and go to have a drink. It's exactly the sort of drink I had been wanting after work; bitter, but not too much so, with a sweet aftertaste that lingers on the back of my tongue. The drink hits my stomach and every part of my body lights up from the warmth of the alcohol, and I can feel the tension melt out of my shoulders. "Damn, this is good. Did I buy this?", I wonder, as I look at the brand. It's not one I recognize; in true IPA fashion the labeling is colorful, and named something wacky. In this case, it seems to be called Voidtrip, which is an awesome name for something that's not a beer. I snort as I read the label. It's good, but it's not 'that' good. Voidtrip sounds like the name of a drug combo, or an awesome electronic band. Using it as the name for an IPA feels... pretentious, for lack of a better word. As I look at the can, I hear the front door open and close downstairs. I turn to shout out and let my wife know I'm upstairs, but as I do, I feel a sluggishness take over, as though the air has suddenly gotten thick and hard to move through. As my head begins to turn, the muscles feel like they've got input lag; they don't respond immediately, and then continue the action I was trying to perform long after I've stopped attempting them. I try to open my mouth to say something, anything, but my lungs don't feel like they're in my control anymore, and my breathing feels heavy and labored.

"Oh. Fuck. I'm dying." I can feel the though crystallize in my mind quickly and responsively, as though everything in my body prioritized that one action.

"FUCK", I think.

"I'm going to die", I think. I feel a single tear inch down my face, my skin burning from the salt left behind.

"I'm not ready to die", I think.

And then I don't think anything else.