Young Writers Society

"All security guards are to be fully dressed in their uniform before they can receive their equipment. Please ensure you are on post at least 5 minutes before the start of your shift. Use your radio to inform your supervisor that you are on-duty." 

Day 1.

Uniform. Check.

Hair pulled back. Check.

I turn on my radio and hang it onto my belt.

I'm a female, yet I am wearing a not-so-fancy black tie and a very manly uniform. Our pants are apparently "unisex", except they provide this awkward space for an organ I do not possess. As if my parents didn't need any extra reasons to be bothered by how much of a tomboy I am. Why security? I suppose I've always had this penchant toward helping others. I wish I were a superhero with a flashy red cape, so I could fly over the corrupt cities of this planet and rid the world of evil. But that's not happening, so security will have to do.  

09:45 

I walk over to a medium-sized lobby where Roll Call is to be held. Four benches form a square in the middle of the lobby. About a dozen old men wearing the same uniform as mine are seated on the benches, looking grim, and chit-chatting about random things. The few younger guards, including myself, just choose random spots to stand in. Two supervisors walk in, followed by the site manager. Roll call begins. Everyone is here. Everyone has their equipment. Instructions are given and relevant information is relayed. Off to the galleries we go. I work in an art museum. It is my job to protect some seriously expensive art, apparently. I've never really had an interest in art, but hey, let's see how my first day on the job goes. 

17:00

Gallery closing. An older guard begins the lockup procedures and I have no clue what to do. He shows me how we have to "sweep" the galleries in order to usher the visitors out, and how we have to check all the emergency exits to ensure they're secure. After we're done, he asks me how my first day on the job was.

"It was great! I love being a security guard!" I say with a smile.

"You'll be hating this job soon enough." He says with a shrug. He walks away, leaving me a little baffled. You'd think a senior guard would give encouraging words of wisdom to the new hire. I hate him already. 

Three weeks later.

I am now a "pro" at this job. All I have to do is patrol the rooms I'm assigned to, make sure nobody touches the art, and greet visitors with a smile or answer their questions and give them directions. I finally learn the name of the old guard who informed me of how I will soon hate my job (which I don't, by the way). Liam Langston. A befitting name for an old grouch!  

10:30

My supervisor walks in on his regular gallery patrol. He has three bars on his epaulets. That's the first time I notice these bars. That's also the first time I catch myself wanting to have three bars as well. 

"You've only been here for three weeks. Get real." I think to myself. He gives me an authoritative nod and walks away. I snap myself back to reality and get back to pacing around my territory, throwing quick glances in every direction to ensure nothing weird is going on. I've become interested in art, all of a sudden. I now enjoy walking around the galleries and contemplating the art while on duty, especially when we're not full to the brim with visitors. I've been reading all about those paintings that I have to protect. They're quite beautiful. I'm so lucky to be working here!

2 months on the job.

I have been showing up to work 6 out of 7 days a week. I'm starting to get used to the feeling of numbness in my legs toward the end of the day. The older guards seem unphased by the fact that they have to stand in the same spot all day. I'm not sure how I feel about it just yet. In fact, I'm not sure how I feel about my job altogether.

14:00

I am counting the seconds on my watch. How long until my next break? 37 minutes and 15 seconds. I pace for what feels like an eternity. I bet 10 minutes have already passed so I look at my watch, full of hope...It's still 14:05?! HOW? I'm beginning to feel like grouchy old Langston may have been telling the truth. No. I refuse to believe it. I'm not like him. I'm not like the other guards. Most of them are grim, hopeless, bored. Numb. It's like there's no real human to talk to. They've been doing this for years. Why am I here? To have a job while I'm still in college, studying the career I actually do want to have. To pay my bills. To get experience. But not to stay for years.

I'm so bored. I pull up a small notebook and start scribbling. On the first page, I write "Memoirs of a broken guard". Because I'm broken, right? Normal guards just come to work, stand like they're frozen in time for hours. And then they just leave. But me? I have a different agenda. I behave differently. They look at me like I'm some foreign entity that makes no sense. Yep, I am definitely broken.