George Noory

It's a fairly well known theory that people who work overnight jobs are unimportant. The idea being most anybody in school, with a family or holding a worthwhile job is asleep by eleven. With mostly loners, psychotics and socially inept simpletons left to guard the various gas stations and restaurants open all night.

Forgotten or unloved they wake up at eight in the evening to slap their uniform on and hulk off to work. Making chit chat with customers and going to sleep with the sunrise. Moping and sweeping. Red eyed and thick tongued. A cup of coffee for comfort.

And as their overnight life drags on, three, four, five, they seek solace. They seek understanding they won't get with the day dwellers. UFO's and Druidism seems a lot more plausible when there's nobody around to refute it. A xerox of a religion that died centuries ago. Religious zeal toward life off the earth. Abduction is a sign of affection, not hostility.

And George comes into our lives at midnight. And he takes our calls. With the patience of a father, our father. He patronizes. He feigns understanding. What cynicism must lurk behind the velvet voice. What snide remarks could he making during breaks. Thirty-five year-old Wiccans and Shamans cleaning toilets. Claims to cure cancer and befriend the aliens and travel to Mars.

And George understands. He asks questions and agrees. He pretends to be fascinated. For us. For our sin of social isolation he nods and smiles. The great psychologist of ante-meridian America. The skeptics can't stop us now.