r .\ ., 0 0 0 bagei ueiivery By HANNAH WAGNER The Westgate Shopping Center, about 3 miles west of the University's Central Cam- pus, looks dead at 11 p.m. The parking lot is void of cars and eerily quiet. The storefronts of T.J. Maxx, the public library and Nicola's books are dark, empty and locked. Another tenant, Barry Bagels, is no exception. Inside the unlit bagel store sits a few rows of tidy tables and chairs and a metal rack neatly stocked with bags of chips. The neon sign on the front window is no longer glowing - the At first glance, the darkness of the early morning hour hides any sign of life. But inside, three employees are hard at work. Washtenaw Community College student Dameon Holmes, a fulltime bagel delivery man for Barry Bagels - a retail and wholesale bagel store with locations in Ann Arbor and Ohio - is sorting bagels for delivery with Lamar Hop- kins, a student at Concordia University, and Jeff Schwerin, the wholesale manager who has worked at Barry Bagels for 17 years. The three have a long night ahead of them - they work from 11 p.m. until 7 a.m., delivering nearly 7,000 bagels throughout Ann Arbor and the surroundingcommunities. They arrive at the store just as the baking crew finishes its nightly production of 546 dozen bagels. Now the bagels have to be separated into groups by destina- tion. In all, the sort- ing process takes about four hours 9 ' and the men work quietly and effi- ciently. Every so r often someone will make an inside joke. and the whole crew will emit a hushed chuckle, but then quickly return to JAKE FROMM/Daily work. Despite the 546 dozen bagels every quiet, they seem us locations. awake and concen- After Holmes bags the bagels for his 25-stop delivery route, he loads them into the back of one of the three white vans parked out back and begins his two and a half hour expedition. Holmes delivers bagels to all Ann Arbor locations - University buildings, Alpha Chi Omega sorority, the three down- town Espresso Royale locations and. other local cafes. The two others deliver outside the downtown Ann Arbor area. First stop: the University of Michigan Com- prehensive Cancer Center. Holmes pulls into the circle drive in front of the hospital, turns his hazard lights on and grabs four bags from the trunk. He leaves the van running and hur- ries through the glass front doors. After scanning an ID card on a digital read- er, Holmes turns a few corners and hops on an elevator. Exiting into a waiting room, Holmes rounds a few more corners and leaves the bags on a long, empty counter. "The hospital is so quiet at three or four in the morning," Holmes says. "You're half awake and you think you're seeing things. You just try to get in and out." Though Holmes says the hospital is by far his most unpleasant stop, he considers many of the others on his route to be just as isolat- ing because they require him to venture into some of the most remote areas of residence hall basements. Holmes tries to maintain an efficient sched- ule in an attempt to shorten his nights and avoid long stretches in the empty basements. "I have a routine where I get in at a certain time and out at a certain time," he says. "You get on a certain schedule." See BAGELS, Page 8B 1'1lM At four in the morning in Ann Arbor, after the bars have all shut their doors and dorm room lights go off one by one, it's easy to I assume that all have settled down for the night. But amid the darkness, a few solitary lights remain: The flo- rescent lamps of a third floor office in the Michigan Union; the headlights of a white commercial van driving down Washtenaw Avenue, making its way toward the Medical Campus; the pilot light of a large industrial stove in the kitchen of the Hill Dining Center; one flashlight finding its way through the dark basement of the South Quad Residence Hall dur- ing a security check; another one identifying the face of a worried driver pulled to the side of the road. These are the lights of Ann Arbor's 4 a.m. workforce - the graveyard shift, the midnight mavens. Though thei: efforts often go unnoticed, they're the ones who keel campus running when no one else is looking. These are their stories - the backwards sleep cycle, the compromised social life, the sacrifices made to work a second job to pay one's way through school. This is the life of the 4 am. workforce. .ateteria Look By ADDIE SHRODES Cafeteria workers at the Hill Dining Center rise hours before the sun on a recent January morning to prepare breakfast for students on the Hill. The cafeteria is quiet and dark at 5:30 a.m., but cooks arrive just after 6 a.m. to begin unloading carts of bulk supplies like muffin batter and raw bacon from the stock room into the industrial kitchen. Breakfast service starts at 7:30 a.m. on weekdays, which leaves the cooks less than two hours to prepare the 15-item menu for the hundreds of students who will file through the lines over the course of three hours. Breakfast ends at -10:30 a.m., and when it's over the cooks at Hill will have fed anywhere from'600 to 800 people. The head breakfast cook at Hill this morn- ing is Keyshia Brown, who normally works the lunch shift from 9 a.m. to 6:30 pin. Today, however, she's filling in for the regular break- fast cook. Brown actually prefers the earlier hours because, she says, "you get it over and done with." The 28-year-old Brown wakes up at 4:30 a.m. to get from her home in Ypsilanti to the dining center by 6 a.m. for the morningshift. Brown transferred from the Markley Dining Hall to Hill when it opened in 2008 because the hours were earlier. At Markley, Brown worked the 11 a.m. to 8 p.m. shift, which ate up most of her day. But since she now finishes work earlier in the day, Brown says she's able to go home and spend time with her daugh- Washtenaw Community College, and she 'A long line of students, armed with says her morning shift at Hill allows her to iPods, forms an hour later. They pass qui- do that. etly through the line in a hurry to eat, while "I'm looking for a career, not just a job," staffers work intently to replace diminishing Brown explains. "Don't get me wrong. This trays of food. is a really good job and times are really hard, But the work doesn't stop when breakfast but I want a career. And thinking of my kids, ends. Through the course of the day, cooks I want them to have a better future." will prepare food for thousands more stu- As staffers get ready for the dining hall to . dents during the lunch and dinner meals. And open at 7:30 a.m., the front kitchen establishes when the last student finally exits the dining a steady yet urgent rhythm of messy clamor: hall, the cooks begin four hours of food prepa- hash browns sizzle and pop on the oiled grid- ration for the next day. dle, egg-yolk mixture bubbles and splashes "It's pretty much the same routine every- and long metal spatulas slap against the sear- day," Brown says. "I just want to hurry up and ing surface. Student employees help Brown get it done so I don't have to think about it and prepare muffins, pancakes and hash browns I don't have to stress myself out." U for the breakfast - line. Once service starts, the student employees will take orders for omelets and serve them on an indi- vidual basis. The tempo isI11 highly productive, ensuring another successful meal. Metal trays of - food hit the break- fast line just on time and students - begin to trickle in after 7:30 a.m. The smell of scrambled eggs, crisp bacon MARISSA MCCLA N/Daiy and buttermilk Cafeteria workers at the Hill Dining Center prepare for breakfast. When it's over, pancakes radiates the cooks will have feed anywhere from 600 to 800 people. )ameon Holmes, a delivery man at Barry Bagels, sorts ight at 11 p.m. before delivering them to multiple camp Housing Security By EMAD ANSARI For Jeremy Raiford, the drive home to Canton from Ann Arbor, where he works as a Housing Security officer in the University residence halls, is often bother- some. The sun shining in his eyes is an unwelcome sight at seven in the morning. It's easy to despise the sun, he says, when you work during the night. "You feel kind of like a vam- pire," Raiford jokes. "It's natural for your body to want to stay up when there's sunlight stream- ing through the windows, so you have to take extra measures to block out the sunlight." A graduate of Grand Valley State University with a major in criminal justice, Raiford, 25, joined University Housing Secu- rity in the spring of 2008. Hav- ing initially aspired to become a lawyer, Raiford soon realized he wanted to work in the field rath- er than analyze criminal activity from behind a desk. Most nights, Raiford patrols the residence hall he's been assigned - making sure the building is secure and respond- ing to emergencies on residen- tial floors. However, some nights Raiford works Central Patrol, providing backup to other offi- cers in the field. He claims he can usually tell how busy the night is going to be based on the general mood of the students he sees during his patrols. "If people are dressed to go out," he says, "it can indicate you might get a few calls later in the night." Weaving a path through the dingy, maze-like basements of residence halls has become sec- ond nature to Raiford - especial- ly in the South Quad residence hall, where he first received training. "After a while," he explains, "you can move through these places in the dark, even without a flashlight." There are a few faces among the maintenance and kitchen staffs he has come to recognize. "They become part of the scen- ery," he says. While the initial adjustment to the unusual schedule that accom- panies night shifts is difficult, Raiford says the body self-cor- rects after a while. Though some- times, he admits, the strange sleep pattern can create some difficult dilemmas. "You have to decide between sleep and watching football," Raiford, a lifelong Detroit Lions fan, says with a laugh. "You also get used to really weird food choices, like eating cereal with spaghetti or pizza for breakfast." See SECURITY, Page 8B DPS Officer By SUTHA KANAGASINGAM Sometime after 2 a.m. on Fri- day night, when you think no one is looking, you roll through a stop sign at a seemingly abandoned intersection. Seconds later, the familiar blue and red lights flash in your car's rear-view mirror and you grudgingly pull over to the side of the road. A Department of Public Safety officer will then walk up to your window, shine a flashlight in your face and determine whether you can get by with just a warning, or if you'll have to pay the $130 fine. DPS Officer Anthony Ricco, who has worked with the depart- ment for seven years - six of them on the midnight shift - could very well be that person. Midnight shifts at DPS are 10-hours long - from 10 p.m. to 8 a.m. every day. Several supervi- sors and officers, like Ricco, are on duty during this time, though Ricco could not exactly say how many because DPS doesn't want the public to know the number of officers working at night. DPS officers bid for shifts every four months, and the shifts are then assigned based on seniority. Surprisingly, some actually prefer the late hours. "I like working at night," Ricco says. "So I usually choose mid- night shifts." See DPS, Page 7B Union Janitor By SAM WAINWRIGHT While you're packing up your bag at the Grad or trekking home from the UGLi late at night, most of the University's custodians are just starting their workday. With shifts ranging anywhere from the 7 p.m. to 3:30 a.m. shift at the Michigan Union, to the 4 a.m. to noon shift at the Duderstadt Center, the Univer- sity's custodial staff are hard at work while the rest of us are sleeping - or drinking. And the drinking is actually what causes much of the mess, according to University custodian Dave Steiner, who says students often stumble into unlocked campus buildings like the Union and use them as "pit-stops" on their way home from the bars or house parties. "The bathrooms (in the Union) are hideous," Steiner says of the resulting mess. "Women are worse tan menjust so people know. For Pete Copp, the University's custodial supervisor, a normal day will start with his alarm ringing at around 2 p.m.,justin time to catch his kids as they return home fromschool. "It's difficult for me because I have two kids (and they play) foot- ball, soccer, all the sports," Copp said of trying to balance being a father and working a midnight shift. "But luckily for me, I'm off on the week- ends. Some of the other guys that work weekends, it's a little difficult." Starting his shift at the Union at 7 p.m., Copp typically grabs his "breakfast" right around when most people are sitting down for dinner. The custodians take a "lunch" break anytime between 8 p.m. and 11 p.m., and then eat dinner when they get home, most nights after 4 a.m. Leaving work at this time allows Copp to help his kids get ready for school before ending his day at 7:30 a.m. Though the work can oftenbe iso- lating and dull, many Union custodi- ans say they've seen their fair share of bizarre encounters. Just over two weeks ago, they caught a man sleep- ing in the Union Ballroom with a few hundred feet of curtains he nad puiied irom the waiis wrapped around his body. However, many of the custodians say the Michigan League seems to be the epicenter of late night weirdness. According to Custodian Arron Stroud, the League has seen every- thing from fully-equipped midnight baseball games in the ballroom to bubble baths in the fountain to wild- life in the hallways. "Weheard footsteps," Stroud says. "Andtnere was no one in tne naiiway except for us. So we went out into the hallway and there was a deer just walking through the hall on the sec- ond floor." But it's not just'the students who keep the custodians busy. Steiner says the yearly Anesthesiology party has the reputation of being a "rager," resulting in a lot of cleanup for him and his fellow custodians. See JANITOR, Page 8B Housing Security Officer Jeremy Raiford making the rounds in t dence Hall. Raiford says the late hours have put a strain on his r University custodian Dave Steiner cleans the Michigan Union every night starting at 7 p.m. Steiner says he typically takes his "lunch break" between 8 p.m. and 11 p.m.