A little late to the dance, but...
Graveyard shifts entail different things depending on where you are working the graveyard shift. For me it was in jail. Come lockdown when you are working the floor it pretty much means going inside the cellblocks every hour and making sure nobody is swinging from a sheet or spooning with an unwilling participant (which by the way they all are unwilling, we can't condone that kinda thing).
So what to do in between inside rounds? Read. And did a lot of it too. The great thing about reading is it becomes addictive. You clear out whatever books you have lying around and you'll start picking up anything with a title and a paragraph.
My girlfriend at the time, now wife, recognized right away how quickly I was devouring books and was kind enough to pick me up a batch; Tony Hillerman, David Simon, and this relatively unknown guy, to me at least, named Carl Hiaasen.
Started with the Hillerman; my heritage is Native American so seemed like a good start. Decent enough book.
On to David Simon's Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets. Wow, what a wonderfully done true story! Simon doesn't report on a year in Baltimore's Homicide he tells the story; it reads like fiction.
I liked Homicide so much I thought for sure this Hiaasen guy was going to be a let down. And thankfully I was wrong. Native American wasn't the only native in my blood, I am also a Native Floridian. And Carl Hiaasen nailed the Florida I love and now miss. Tourist Season; even the title was a play on words. The book was hilarious, like laugh out loud funny. I found myself getting off work at eight in the morning sitting up in bed with the book in hand. I couldn't get enough. In fact I was a bit saddened when I finished, I wanted more. No, I needed more.
Thankfully, Mr. Hiassen had been at it a few years before I made my discovery of him so I rushed out and picked up Double Whammy. And again was delighted with his mayhem and wild characters that were all too real. This was, and still is, the funniest Hiaasen I've ever read. And yes, I referred to it as a Hiaasen.
I wasn't the only soul working in the cold lonely environment of the jail in the moon light. There were others who found companionship in the written works of others. And loving my fellow zombie guard, I passed on the written word that brought me the most joy. So as I read Double Whammy another read Tourist Season.
And when I was done with Double Whammy I passed it on, and Tourist Season was passed on.
I learned quickly not to subject myself to the withdrawals of not having a Hiaasen, so I bought Skin Tight and Native Tongue at the same time. Read one and passed it on. Read the next one and passed it on.
Unknowingly I had created a chain of addicted Hiaasen readers and with each new purchase the chain grew bigger. I got the last released Hiaasen at the time, Strip Tease, which meant that at any given moment the entire East Wing of the facility would be reading a Hiaasen.
I took my time and savored Strip Tease not knowing when the next Hiaasen would come out. My slow paced reading paid off because word soon came out that the next Hiaasen was to be released. And like an owl on a mouse I swooped down from the night and snatched Stormy Weather up.
Stormy Weather found a special place in my heart because the basis of the story was around Hurricane Andrew; the hurricane that leveled my childhood home. OK, so what if it was a trailer.
Soon I was done with it and passed it on; left with no Hiaasen to pass the nights.
Two years would pass until the next Hiaasen came out. I tried to fill the void with other authors, but never found what it was I was missing. It wasn't that they were bad authors or stories, it was just they didn't have that zany flavor that I and others had come to love.
"Did you hear, there's a new Hiaasen coming out?!"
Lucky You arrived on scene and I was back in the driver seat. By this time everyone was caught up with the string of Hiaasens I had lent out and they were back in my possession; my collection complete. Now instead of the jail being full of a variety of Hiaasens it was the light green cover with a lottery ticket on it seen on every floor.
Mine was of special value to me because it was a personally signed copy. I got to meet the man himself at St. Armands Circle in Sarasota, Fl. I was there early, third in line, and a crowd soon gathered at the book store. Inside I was flipping, but on the outside I was the cool, calm, collective in my police stance; standing up straight, feet shoulder width apart, and hands folded in front.
When I finally got to him he stood, smiled, shook my hand, and offered a chair. I took it with a thanks and he asked what I wanted written inside. I said whatever you like. He whipped something out and passed the book to me. I closed the book not even looking at it; it didn't matter, shook his hand and thanked him. I wanted so badly to tell him how he single-handedly boosted morale of the midnight shift in the county jail, but I didn't think it was fair to take anymore of his time from the others who had gathered to say thanks.
Shortly after I was promoted and taken off of the midnight shift so my reading time was greatly reduced. I still managed to grab the newest Hiaasen and devour it. It was after reading those Hiaasens that I realized I wanted to be a writer. Not because I thought I could do that. But because I wanted to make people feel the way I did on the floor all by myself; like I had a friend in hand.
