In my first year of junior college, I picked up a part-time job at a local self-storage facility.

If you've never been to one, it's basically a cluster of metal storage units arranged in grids where people keep their

extra furniture.

I manned the front desk in the evenings, often with a female student named Liz.

Most nights were leathily boring. Liz and I would sit around doing homework

and exchanging stories about our lives,

occasionally buzzing a car into the lot

or helping a renter with a stuck lock.

Our manager came in only once a week and hated working there even more than we did.

His name was Stephen, and his Polish accent was so thick we almost

nodded our way through conversations with him. A few times a month he'd bring

his ancient golden retriever Leo who loved laying in my shoes

while I sat at the desk. Those were my favorite nights at work.

Stephen expected me to walk the facility each night, checking for unpassened locks,

spills, weird noises and smells, or anything else out of order.

He'd always say, you're a man, you go, Liz stay, there's no going dark.

I understood his concern. Every few months the cops would show up and would be forced to open a unit.

Invariably there was a low-budget meth lab inside or otherwise some kind of

redneck pharmacy whose contents would land a man in a clink for a decade.

Chemicals, Stephen would say, you smell, you call.

He was a decent guy, but he didn't like Leo much.

The dog belonged to his late wife, and Stophon made it very clear that he'd gotten stuck with him when she died.

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