Cigarette smoke and corndogs.
     That's what it smells like back here. I'm sitting behind a corndog restaurant where someone has recently been smoking. I don't know her name, or her rank, just that she was here. Beyond that, I don't really care.
     I'm surrounded by smells, so one more doesn't really make much difference. The sweet smell of cotten candy drifts over to mingle with the corndogs and curly fries, as well as the ever-present tang of ketchup. My own hands smell like the sponge I've been wiping tables with, and it is for that reason that I try to keep some distance between them and my nose.
     A stale smell that I don't recognize has suddenly cropped up. It's 7:30pm, I think I'll go wipe tables.
     8pm. Have you ever taken a deep breath while walking through or around a crowd of people? People smell. That's not to say they smell bad, just that everyone happens to have a particular scent. A nasal list of everything they've done up to that point. Perfume, cleaning products, food, smoke, all their scents wafting through your olfactory system. Some pleasant, some disgusting, some even triggering memories. They're all hidden out there in that teeming mass known as the human race.
     I've still got about two hours until my shift is over. Time to go wipe tables again!
     The area I'm working in is a non-smoking area. It even has a sign to prove it. As far as I can tell, I'm the only one aware of the sign's presense. Either that or people just assume that if they're going to smoke, they're going to smoke wherever they damn well please. Full cups of soda and tables covered with napkins and ketchup packets I can handle. But every time someone lights up in this city regulated non-smoking area, I cringe inside. It's not the fact that they're breaking the rules that gets to me, I just really dislike cigarette smoke. Hour and a half left.
     8:40pm. I wonder if I can turn this in as a non-fiction piece of writing. Or is this little more than a bizarre journal entry? I don't keep a journal so I'm not sure.
     8:45pm. My hands are cold and numb. Writing keeps them moving though, so they're actually warming up a little. Or maybe the sponge water is just drying. About an hour left, off to wipe tables.
     I almost wish I had a map. People keep asking me for directions. They seem to be under the (mistaken) impression that I know where things are. They'd probably have more luck asking the people who work inside the corndog place. Surely preparing food requires some sort of previous experience here. One lady summed it up best, when I admitted I didn't know where the place she was looking for was, with "No clue, huh?" Nope. Not a one.
     My nose is running. I have no amusing anecdote or philosophical musing about it, but it's annoying enough to be noteworthy.
     I wish this shirt were more absorbant.
     Off with the sponge again, with forty-five minutes to go.
     My feet are sore, but I'm pacing. The more I move, the more my blood flows; and the more my blood flows, the less cold I'll be. So I'm pacing. Doing jumping jacks back here next to the trash bin would just look silly. Half an hour.
     And with twenty minutes left, the lady has come out for another cigarette break. I think I'll go sweep or something.
     Ironically, I'm sweeping up cigarette butts. In the non-smoking area, of course. Where else would they be?
     Ten minutes. Funny how sweeping something up from the ground can make you crave that very thing. I would kill for some fries right about now.
     Curly fries.
     The next five minutes will be spent sitting, on the same wooden steps I've been sitting on for the past four hours, and staring up at the bungee tower. Man it's tall. It has several spotlights on it, so it and the stairs are clearly lit. That's how I'm able to write outside at 10pm.
     10pm. 10:10pm, actually, but I'm still here. I'll give the tables one last wipe. Not much point, given the condition of the sponge, but it'll get the worst of it.
     Saved while wiping the tables. Time to go home, can't wait till next time!