Behind the Mic in Write of B+

I hesitated at the door, not for fear of failure, but for a moment of peace before the shift began. The door buzzed, allowing me past the first of many secured doors, each one put in place for our safety. The last door, I punched in the alphanumeric code, the door beeping loudly. I eased in, mindful to be quiet should the others be actively broadcasting over their bands.

I open my locker, locker number 12. Inside the cubic foot of space holds a sundries, so needed for the job, others needed for comfort or emergency (or in the case of the pink portfolio, needed for organization skills). I pull out my headset and token, checking to see where everyone else was set up so that I may find my seat and get started. I grab my plain blue binder, my name taped to the front of it. Inside holds everything I could need in a pinch to do what I need to do. Many days, I don't even open it.

It's not that I'm that good, but instead there are days that I just don't have the need for the information that is in there.

If I'm replacing a person already there, they usually start signing out of the radios and phones, unclipping the battery pack and handing it off to me, where I hook my headset. I slip it on my head, and either slip the clip into my belt loop or the collar of my shirt, or if really need be, the strap of my lanyard. I hate things around my neck, so that extra weight is usually not welcomed.

I sign in to my computers, ease into my chair, and get briefed by the previous shift. Some days, there's nothing to add, nothing that will 'come back' to us on the night shift. Other days, it's like walking in to a whirlwind of activity where the 'clip' is tossed and the co-workers run for their lives. I face my five monitors, fiddle with the knobs and sliders for the different radios and speakers, pull up my programs and email. Some days I on shift everyone at once. Other days, I on shift them as they call out.

Twelve hours, minus a lunch, I listen, I speak, I broadcast over the air. Some days, the flow is famine, other days the flow is feast. Some days, it seems like I am alert-toning out every other broadcast, simucasting over all bands, my heart pounding in my chest. Other days, we're so dead that I'm 10-17*/Checking every hour to make sure no one has gone and fallen asleep out there.

At around 4-4:30 am, I check the tour log (it seems to be my 'job') and start tidying up around me during the last 15-20 minutes of the 4 o'clock hour. Between 5 and 5:15 am, the first relief comes through, relieving my partner of his position. During 5:30-5:45 am, my relief comes in. I brief them of anything that might carry over from the night, give them a heads up of any key items they need to know about. I unplug my power pack, log out of the phone and radios, and hand it off.

I store my binder away for another day, and slid my headset and token back in my cubic locker on my way back out the locking doors, leave it all behind for another night. I exit the building, cross the parking lot to my car and sit for a moment, just to breathe and give myself a moment to unwind before I head home and start up my day with my family.