The Beer at Three in the Morning

It was my third month working the night shift when I started noticing him.

Three in the morning, on the dot. The automatic door slid open, a gust of wind rushed in, and there he was. He walked straight to the cooler, pulled the glass door open, and took a can of Tsingtao from the bottom shelf. At the counter, he'd pull out exactly five yuan fifty in change—coins and crumpled bills, always the exact amount.

"Need a bag?"

He'd shake his head.

I'd scan the beer, take the money. He'd tuck the can into the inner pocket of his jacket and walk out. The door slid shut. The wind stopped. The whole thing took ninety seconds, tops.

At first I didn't pay him much attention. You see all kinds on the night shift—programmers running on Red Bull, drunks stumbling in for cigarettes after last call, old ladies who can't sleep buying milk at four in the morning. Everyone has their rhythm. The programmer's rhythm was two Red Bulls and a pack of crackers. The drunk's rhythm was never remembering what he'd just bought. The old lady's rhythm was checking the expiration date on every single carton of milk.

His rhythm was 3 a.m., one can of Tsingtao, exact change, no bag.

The seventh night was when I really started watching. I'd finished mopping early, had the floor spotless, and I stood behind the counter waiting. At 2:58 I started looking at the door. At 2:59 I heard footsteps. At 3:00, the door opened.

Not a second off.

This man had calibrated his departure time, his walking speed, his route, with some kind of precision I couldn't explain.

I started lingering after my shift ended. Not to follow him—just on my way home. I'd bike past the bus stop across the street, and sometimes I'd see him there.

The first time I saw him at the bus stop, it was 4:20 in the morning. He was sitting on the bench, jacket wrapped tight around him. The buses had stopped running hours ago. Then I saw him take out the beer and pop the tab.

He didn't drink it.

He held the can in front of him for a few seconds, then slowly tilted it and poured the beer into the flowerbed next to the bench. The whole can, every last drop. He put the empty into a plastic bag he'd brought, stood up, and walked east along the sidewalk until he disappeared into the shadows of the plane trees.

I sat there on my bike, one foot on the ground, watching from across the street. The streets were so quiet at four in the morning that I could hear the beer soaking into the soil.

Every night shift after that, I'd pass the bus stop on my way home. I wasn't following him. I just passed by, glanced over, made sure he was still doing it.

He was there every night.

One night it rained. He held a black umbrella, most of it angled over the flowerbed while he got soaked. One night the wind was fierce, and he used his body as a shield until it died down, then poured. Once he came late—around 4:40, and I was about to leave after waiting almost twenty minutes—he jogged up, can clutched in his fist, stopped at the flowerbed to catch his breath, and poured the beer as usual. Then he crouched down and turned over the soil with his hands. I saw his hands shaking.

Two months later, I switched to the day shift.

Day shift customers were a different species entirely. Soy milk and steamed buns at seven, oden and boxed lunches at noon, kids buying spicy sticks and popsicles after school. Lively, noisy, three times the revenue of the night shift.

But something was missing.

One weekend I couldn't sleep. I biked five kilometers back to the neighborhood and sat down on the bench at the bus stop. Across the street, the convenience store was lit up. At three in the morning, the door slid open and shut. A figure stepped out, jacket pocket slightly bulging.

He walked toward the bus stop. Saw someone on the bench. Stopped.

I stood up and moved to the far end. He hesitated, then sat down at the other end. A meter between us, my backpack in the middle.

He took out the beer and popped the tab.

Should I ask? Who is it? Do you come here every night? Are you okay?

I said nothing.

He held the can up for a few seconds, then slowly poured the beer into the flowerbed. Under the moonlight, the liquid splashed tiny foam bubbles on the surface of the soil before soaking in fast. The soil was wet—the kind of wet that comes from being saturated over a long, long time.

He didn't leave right away. He crushed the empty can, put it in his plastic bag. Then he took something from his pocket—a photograph. He ran his thumb across it, put it back.

He stood up.

Passing me, he paused.

"Thank you for never asking."

His voice was soft. It felt like he was talking to me, and also to someone else.

Then he walked away. His footsteps faded, the shadows of the plane trees washing over him one by one until he dissolved completely into the pre-dawn darkness.

I sat there for a long time.

The soil in the flowerbed was still wet. I reached down and touched it. Cold.

I never went back to that bus stop at three in the morning. But every time I drink a beer now, I think of him.

The man who came to the convenience store every night at three, bought the same can, walked through the empty streets, sat down on the bench at the bus stop, and poured it slowly into the flowerbed.

It wasn't beer he was pouring.

It was another day of remembering.