Meet the People of 2018’s Cleveland People Issue

From someone who watches you sleep, or at least your brain activity while you slumber, to a dominatrix who fulfills a wide range of humiliation and BDSM fantasies for clients, this year's People Issue is all about what happens after the sun sets in Cleveland. Long after most of us have retired to the couch for the evening or even hit the hay, these folks are just beginning their day. They're prepping and baking what you'll eventually eat for breakfast, they're making sure the newspaper is on your doorstep when you wake up, they're enjoying and protecting priceless works of art, they're listening to police scanners and jetting to the scenes of crimes and accidents to shoot video that will fill the morning newscast you watch over coffee. In some ways, jobs are jobs, no matter the hour they're done. For the night-owl shifts, however, there are particular and unique obstacles, to family, friends, dating, sleep, and the chores that the rest of us take for ranted. Dive in to hear firsthand from those humping overnight gigs on what they do and why, and the one perk they all agree on (spoiler: Traffic, it turns out, is a breeze). People 2018 photos by Tim Harrison.

From someone who watches you sleep, or at least your brain activity while you slumber, to a dominatrix who fulfills a wide range of humiliation and BDSM fantasies for clients, this year's People Issue is all about what happens after the sun sets in Cleveland.

Long after most of us have retired to the couch for the evening or even hit the hay, these folks are just beginning their day. They're prepping and baking what you'll eventually eat for breakfast, they're making sure the newspaper is on your doorstep when you wake up, they're enjoying and protecting priceless works of art, they're listening to police scanners and jetting to the scenes of crimes and accidents to shoot video that will fill the morning newscast you watch over coffee.

In some ways, jobs are jobs, no matter the hour they're done. For the night-owl shifts, however, there are particular and unique obstacles, to family, friends, dating, sleep, and the chores that the rest of us take for ranted.

Dive in to hear firsthand from those humping overnight gigs on what they do and why, and the one perk they all agree on (spoiler: Traffic, it turns out, is a breeze).

People 2018 photos by Tim Harrison.

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Kurt Zoss, Owner, Zoss the Swiss Baker
With more than 22 years of night shift experience in his own bakery, Kurt Zoss, of Zoss the Swiss Baker in Cleveland Heights, has had a bit of time to figure out how to balance a family, a healthy lifestyle and a demanding business.
The start time for Zoss' quotidian night-owl stretch varies based on the volume of baked goods expected to leave the tiny workroom, but it's always sometime between 10 p.m. and 3 a.m. And while Zoss has help in the bakery during business hours, it's a one-man show overnight.
At the beginning of what usually ends up being a 12-hour day, Zoss mixes, shapes and bakes dough for flakey pastries, hearty breads and tons of Bavarian pretzels.
"The night shift is really special," he says with a smile. "But you get used to it." He's had plenty of time to adjust, after all, since starting the business in 1996.
"You have to be very strict on the sleep schedule," Zoss says. "I figured out if I have to work at midnight, I should be in bed about 6 at night. So whatever time I start, I sleep six hours before."

Kurt Zoss, Owner, Zoss the Swiss Baker

With more than 22 years of night shift experience in his own bakery, Kurt Zoss, of Zoss the Swiss Baker in Cleveland Heights, has had a bit of time to figure out how to balance a family, a healthy lifestyle and a demanding business.

The start time for Zoss' quotidian night-owl stretch varies based on the volume of baked goods expected to leave the tiny workroom, but it's always sometime between 10 p.m. and 3 a.m. And while Zoss has help in the bakery during business hours, it's a one-man show overnight.

At the beginning of what usually ends up being a 12-hour day, Zoss mixes, shapes and bakes dough for flakey pastries, hearty breads and tons of Bavarian pretzels.

"The night shift is really special," he says with a smile. "But you get used to it." He's had plenty of time to adjust, after all, since starting the business in 1996.

"You have to be very strict on the sleep schedule," Zoss says. "I figured out if I have to work at midnight, I should be in bed about 6 at night. So whatever time I start, I sleep six hours before."

If Zoss isn't in the bakery, you can probably find him riding his bicycle or motorcycle. He also loves traveling whenever he gets the rare chance. But most times you'll find him in his shop, the final destination of a trip that began when he apprenticed in his home country of Switzerland at the age of 16.
When Zoss moved to the States in the 1980s, he got a job at the highly respected La Brea Bakery in Los Angeles. After that, he moved to Cleveland Heights where his wife, Barbara, grew up.
Fast forward a few years, and Zoss is no longer the only one in the bakery who grew up in the business. Barbara handles all the savory tarts that line the cases, and their sons, Roman and Ryan, started working in the shop as soon as they could, helping their dad make pretzels for local bars and breweries. In the summer months when his sons were growing up and helping out at the farmer's market stands, Zoss says "they learned that money doesn't grow on trees."
His sons are now grown, and family time is not what it used to be back in the day, but the bonds and lessons built over bread will never be lost. And that past, present and future of his business continue to drive him every day.
"You're doing something that you can see," Zoss says. "You get to hold it. It's instant, more or less ... I always like that aspect. And, you know, it makes people happy."

If Zoss isn't in the bakery, you can probably find him riding his bicycle or motorcycle. He also loves traveling whenever he gets the rare chance. But most times you'll find him in his shop, the final destination of a trip that began when he apprenticed in his home country of Switzerland at the age of 16.

When Zoss moved to the States in the 1980s, he got a job at the highly respected La Brea Bakery in Los Angeles. After that, he moved to Cleveland Heights where his wife, Barbara, grew up.

Fast forward a few years, and Zoss is no longer the only one in the bakery who grew up in the business. Barbara handles all the savory tarts that line the cases, and their sons, Roman and Ryan, started working in the shop as soon as they could, helping their dad make pretzels for local bars and breweries. In the summer months when his sons were growing up and helping out at the farmer's market stands, Zoss says "they learned that money doesn't grow on trees."

His sons are now grown, and family time is not what it used to be back in the day, but the bonds and lessons built over bread will never be lost. And that past, present and future of his business continue to drive him every day.

"You're doing something that you can see," Zoss says. "You get to hold it. It's instant, more or less ... I always like that aspect. And, you know, it makes people happy."

Malicia Morrigan, Dominatrix
Malicia Morrigan's 6-foot-2 frame (6-foot-9 in heels) drapes across a chaise longue, nestled between walls adorned with leather cuffs, whips, chains, ball gags, gimp masks and an assortment of prods. A St. Andrew's Cross looms in the background. A human-sized dog cage sits in the corner. Her perfectly manicured toes peep out of her patent leather heels, and in the background a man is heard screaming in painful ecstasy. "Someone's having a good time," she says.
For those with a more unique desire for thrilling adventure, the Red Door Dungeon is the oldest and largest professional in-person dominance dungeon in Cleveland. Malicia Morrigan works here as a giantess and domina. The Red Door Dungeon does not offer illegal services like sex solicitation, and Morrigan fulfills all of her work duties without ever removing a single article of clothing.
There's a stigma attached to sex work and those who patronize sex workers, but, "The main demographic are white-collar workers, usually between the ages of 35 and 55, although I've had clients in the age range of 29 through their late 70s," she says. While Morrigan cannot disclose the identities or professions of her clients, studies on kink and BDSM (bondage, dominance, sadism and masochism) show that it is often men with high-pressure jobs or those working in high-power positions who find a cathartic release by experiencing femdom, or the act of being dominated by a woman.
"They come here to let go and be free for a moment," she says.

Malicia Morrigan, Dominatrix

Malicia Morrigan's 6-foot-2 frame (6-foot-9 in heels) drapes across a chaise longue, nestled between walls adorned with leather cuffs, whips, chains, ball gags, gimp masks and an assortment of prods. A St. Andrew's Cross looms in the background. A human-sized dog cage sits in the corner. Her perfectly manicured toes peep out of her patent leather heels, and in the background a man is heard screaming in painful ecstasy. "Someone's having a good time," she says.

For those with a more unique desire for thrilling adventure, the Red Door Dungeon is the oldest and largest professional in-person dominance dungeon in Cleveland. Malicia Morrigan works here as a giantess and domina. The Red Door Dungeon does not offer illegal services like sex solicitation, and Morrigan fulfills all of her work duties without ever removing a single article of clothing.

There's a stigma attached to sex work and those who patronize sex workers, but, "The main demographic are white-collar workers, usually between the ages of 35 and 55, although I've had clients in the age range of 29 through their late 70s," she says. While Morrigan cannot disclose the identities or professions of her clients, studies on kink and BDSM (bondage, dominance, sadism and masochism) show that it is often men with high-pressure jobs or those working in high-power positions who find a cathartic release by experiencing femdom, or the act of being dominated by a woman.

"They come here to let go and be free for a moment," she says.

Morrigan offers a variety of services, including the surprisingly common fetish of sissification (to feminize a man, most often by forcing him to wear women's clothing, typically gaudy and overly feminine to enhance his humiliation), offering her size-12 feet for worshipping, bondage, power exchange, mental and physical torture and full body weight distribution. "I've been asked to wrestle clients before, wanting me to use entire body weight to trample or sit on them," she says.
Morrigan enjoys her work and is willing to provide whatever sexual liberation her clients desire, but notes even this job has its tedious aspects: "Everyone sees these fancy rope designs and harnesses on Instagram, but then I feel like I'm tying shoes for a half hour."
When Morrigan isn't working at the Red Door Dungeon, she also performs one-on-one online humiliation and domination shows via Skype, through private scheduling.
As a member of the alternative community her entire life, Morrigan found her friends and social circles supportive of her decision to become a dominatrix. "Had I not grown up so alternative, I'm sure this decision could have been catastrophic," she says. If you see her out and about around town, you might find her in something like a perfectly fitted corset and fishnet tights. It is clear that this isn't just a hobby; it's part of her identity.
"There's a misconception that the sex work I do is prostitution, and it's not," she says. "If anything, it's a form of a therapy that happens to be sexual in nature. Being dominated is an immersive and vulnerable experience, and these clients are putting their physical and psychological safety in our hands. That's not something we take lightly. It's not easy work, because it's incredibly cerebral. But I love my job. I love what I do. And I'm good at it."

Morrigan offers a variety of services, including the surprisingly common fetish of sissification (to feminize a man, most often by forcing him to wear women's clothing, typically gaudy and overly feminine to enhance his humiliation), offering her size-12 feet for worshipping, bondage, power exchange, mental and physical torture and full body weight distribution. "I've been asked to wrestle clients before, wanting me to use entire body weight to trample or sit on them," she says.

Morrigan enjoys her work and is willing to provide whatever sexual liberation her clients desire, but notes even this job has its tedious aspects: "Everyone sees these fancy rope designs and harnesses on Instagram, but then I feel like I'm tying shoes for a half hour."

When Morrigan isn't working at the Red Door Dungeon, she also performs one-on-one online humiliation and domination shows via Skype, through private scheduling.

As a member of the alternative community her entire life, Morrigan found her friends and social circles supportive of her decision to become a dominatrix. "Had I not grown up so alternative, I'm sure this decision could have been catastrophic," she says. If you see her out and about around town, you might find her in something like a perfectly fitted corset and fishnet tights. It is clear that this isn't just a hobby; it's part of her identity.

"There's a misconception that the sex work I do is prostitution, and it's not," she says. "If anything, it's a form of a therapy that happens to be sexual in nature. Being dominated is an immersive and vulnerable experience, and these clients are putting their physical and psychological safety in our hands. That's not something we take lightly. It's not easy work, because it's incredibly cerebral. But I love my job. I love what I do. And I'm good at it."

Kev Boycik, Manager, Cleveland Cinemas; host, Rocky Horror Picture Show screenings
He wasn't at the first screening of Rocky Horror at the Cedar Lee — he was recovering from knee surgery at the time — but he was there for the second. And he became a regular after that.
Now, 31 years later, Kev Boycik serves as the host for the screenings that take place at midnight on the first Saturday of every month. 
Right before a recent showing, Boycik, who, with his sideburns and thick-rimmed glasses looks like a young Elvis Costello, runs to the front of the theater, microphone in hand. When he gets there, he welcomes patrons and then brings all the "virgins" in the audience up to the front of the room for a friendly hazing.
"Give us your best fake orgaaaaaasm," he intones as he hands the mic to each person. After their attempts, he playfully mocks their moans and groans and calls Opal, the theater's veteran ticket taker, into the theater to help him judge the performances.

Kev Boycik, Manager, Cleveland Cinemas; host, Rocky Horror Picture Show screenings

He wasn't at the first screening of Rocky Horror at the Cedar Lee — he was recovering from knee surgery at the time — but he was there for the second. And he became a regular after that.

Now, 31 years later, Kev Boycik serves as the host for the screenings that take place at midnight on the first Saturday of every month.

Right before a recent showing, Boycik, who, with his sideburns and thick-rimmed glasses looks like a young Elvis Costello, runs to the front of the theater, microphone in hand. When he gets there, he welcomes patrons and then brings all the "virgins" in the audience up to the front of the room for a friendly hazing.

"Give us your best fake orgaaaaaasm," he intones as he hands the mic to each person. After their attempts, he playfully mocks their moans and groans and calls Opal, the theater's veteran ticket taker, into the theater to help him judge the performances.

Boycik then runs through the 10 "rules" that fans must obey to avoid "premature ejaculation" from the theater. Patrons traditionally throw rice and toast during the screening, but Boycik wants to make sure they don't damage the screen. "You break it, you buy it," he warns. And he encourages everyone to stay seated during the screening since a local cast that calls itself Simply His Servants will perform a live floor show and act out scenes from the flick. 
"Because it's been at the Cedar Lee for so long, it's become generational," Boycik says when asked about the campy movie's appeal. "I can't tell you how many people come up to me and say, 'This is my son,' or they say, 'This is my daughter.' Two months ago, there was a group that included a grandmother and her son and his son. They had all grown up seeing Rocky Horror at the Cedar Lee."
A manager at Cleveland Cinemas, Boycik says attendance for the midnight showings continues to be strong and that audiences still actively participate, shouting out alternative lines of dialogue and song lyrics throughout the screening.
"For some people, it's a rite of passage that they need to get out of their system," he says. "Other people come to it and they never leave. Because of what the country is like right now, there are people who need a little bit of political incorrectness and a space to act like deviants and weirdos. Fortunately, The Rocky Horror Picture Show still works. It used to be just white college kids, but now we get white, black, straight, gay and trans people. It's a great group of people that shows up. It's like a social thing, and this place kind of turns into a nightclub."

Boycik then runs through the 10 "rules" that fans must obey to avoid "premature ejaculation" from the theater. Patrons traditionally throw rice and toast during the screening, but Boycik wants to make sure they don't damage the screen. "You break it, you buy it," he warns. And he encourages everyone to stay seated during the screening since a local cast that calls itself Simply His Servants will perform a live floor show and act out scenes from the flick.

"Because it's been at the Cedar Lee for so long, it's become generational," Boycik says when asked about the campy movie's appeal. "I can't tell you how many people come up to me and say, 'This is my son,' or they say, 'This is my daughter.' Two months ago, there was a group that included a grandmother and her son and his son. They had all grown up seeing Rocky Horror at the Cedar Lee."

A manager at Cleveland Cinemas, Boycik says attendance for the midnight showings continues to be strong and that audiences still actively participate, shouting out alternative lines of dialogue and song lyrics throughout the screening.

"For some people, it's a rite of passage that they need to get out of their system," he says. "Other people come to it and they never leave. Because of what the country is like right now, there are people who need a little bit of political incorrectness and a space to act like deviants and weirdos. Fortunately, The Rocky Horror Picture Show still works. It used to be just white college kids, but now we get white, black, straight, gay and trans people. It's a great group of people that shows up. It's like a social thing, and this place kind of turns into a nightclub."

Maurice Summons, Custodian, Cleveland Hopkins International Airport
Twice, in the beginning, Maurice Summons left work, got into his beloved Chrysler 300 and fell asleep before the keys slid into the ignition. He'd wake up hours later having never moved from the Cleveland Hopkins International Airport employee parking lot.
"I'm sure you've been tired before in your life," the night-shift custodian says. "But not like this. It's not anything you can control."
These bouts of extreme tiredness came when he added a second job as a third-shift custodian (9:30 p.m. to 6 a.m.) at the airport, while also keeping his twice weekly shoe shiner gig at the Cleveland Shines station on Concourse C during summer mornings.
"I'm used to it now, but it took a lot of getting used to," the 37-year-old says. "I started the night shift in 2013, and I didn't get used to it until 2014. Going to sleep by 3 p.m., you have to get used to that too. Everybody, the kids are getting out of school, you have to find your own quiet to get to work by 9:30 p.m."
Our interview with Summons takes place in the middle of the day, a time he has selected, meaning he's functioning (impressively well) on a couple hours of sleep. Walking through the less-than-busy airport baggage claim, Summons greets every employee who passes by before settling down in a conference room to chat.
Summons, a transplant from the South Side of Chicago, says this is the best job he's ever had. He says that at night, when his crew is stripping, washing and buffing floors, "People [departing their planes] will tell us 'thank you.'"

Maurice Summons, Custodian, Cleveland Hopkins International Airport

Twice, in the beginning, Maurice Summons left work, got into his beloved Chrysler 300 and fell asleep before the keys slid into the ignition. He'd wake up hours later having never moved from the Cleveland Hopkins International Airport employee parking lot.

"I'm sure you've been tired before in your life," the night-shift custodian says. "But not like this. It's not anything you can control."

These bouts of extreme tiredness came when he added a second job as a third-shift custodian (9:30 p.m. to 6 a.m.) at the airport, while also keeping his twice weekly shoe shiner gig at the Cleveland Shines station on Concourse C during summer mornings.

"I'm used to it now, but it took a lot of getting used to," the 37-year-old says. "I started the night shift in 2013, and I didn't get used to it until 2014. Going to sleep by 3 p.m., you have to get used to that too. Everybody, the kids are getting out of school, you have to find your own quiet to get to work by 9:30 p.m."

Our interview with Summons takes place in the middle of the day, a time he has selected, meaning he's functioning (impressively well) on a couple hours of sleep. Walking through the less-than-busy airport baggage claim, Summons greets every employee who passes by before settling down in a conference room to chat.

Summons, a transplant from the South Side of Chicago, says this is the best job he's ever had. He says that at night, when his crew is stripping, washing and buffing floors, "People [departing their planes] will tell us 'thank you.'"

He finds as much satisfaction in keeping a clean home as he does a clean airport bathroom or polishing someone's shoes (which he claims to be one of the best at). Summons says he probably has OCD. His DVD collection is always in order and no dish is left unwashed in the sink.
But like any job, his gig has its concerns. A member of the Service Employee International Union Local 1, Summons worries about mandatory overtime and getting more workers hired for the night shift.
Also, to schedule anything from family events to working out vacation time with the HR department, he has to be clear about dates and times. "I'm always a day ahead," he says. On his two days off a week, he makes time for his kids and seeing friends.
Still, there's something about the hours that he loves, like beating the traffic in the evening and the morning. And he enjoys going to the grocery store right after work when the only people in the place are senior citizens.
"I like being the guy making money while everyone else is asleep," Summons says. "Sometimes it feels like I have the whole city to myself."

He finds as much satisfaction in keeping a clean home as he does a clean airport bathroom or polishing someone's shoes (which he claims to be one of the best at). Summons says he probably has OCD. His DVD collection is always in order and no dish is left unwashed in the sink.

But like any job, his gig has its concerns. A member of the Service Employee International Union Local 1, Summons worries about mandatory overtime and getting more workers hired for the night shift.

Also, to schedule anything from family events to working out vacation time with the HR department, he has to be clear about dates and times. "I'm always a day ahead," he says. On his two days off a week, he makes time for his kids and seeing friends.

Still, there's something about the hours that he loves, like beating the traffic in the evening and the morning. And he enjoys going to the grocery store right after work when the only people in the place are senior citizens.

"I like being the guy making money while everyone else is asleep," Summons says. "Sometimes it feels like I have the whole city to myself."

Linda Mercadante, Depot Manager, the Plain Dealer
Waking up in the dead of winter is the hardest, says Linda Mercadante at 3:12 a.m., sitting in her office at the Plain Dealer distribution depot on Van Epps Road in Brooklyn Heights.
"When it's pitch-black and the wind is ..." — she waves her hands and goes whoosh — "it's so hard to get out of bed."
But she does. And she has for the past 22 years. She's the woman who ensures that the local newspaper arrives on local porches before the crack of dawn each morning. In the wintertime, she leaves for work from her home in Euclid long before the snowplows are out. Sometimes, she says, she wishes there were brake lights to show her the way.
She arrives around midnight each night, though the depot doesn't officially open until 1 a.m. The morning newspaper arrives in trucks from the Tiedeman production facility, warm and bundled, at about 1:30, and Mercadante begins the daily management of her distributors — 108 union drivers and 18 part-timers — who deliver not only the PD, but the Sun News and the Wall Street Journal and The New York Times and USA Today to the thousands of subscribers in the region.
"I'm the bad guy," Mercadante jokes. "Nobody around here likes me." But she says someone has to remind the distributors of the contracts they signed, has to reinforce their commitment to the readers who expect a newspaper when they wake up (and who are eager to call and complain if an edition is late or absent). "It really is all about the customer," Mercadante says. "That's the bottom line."

Linda Mercadante, Depot Manager, the Plain Dealer

Waking up in the dead of winter is the hardest, says Linda Mercadante at 3:12 a.m., sitting in her office at the Plain Dealer distribution depot on Van Epps Road in Brooklyn Heights.

"When it's pitch-black and the wind is ..." — she waves her hands and goes whoosh — "it's so hard to get out of bed."

But she does. And she has for the past 22 years. She's the woman who ensures that the local newspaper arrives on local porches before the crack of dawn each morning. In the wintertime, she leaves for work from her home in Euclid long before the snowplows are out. Sometimes, she says, she wishes there were brake lights to show her the way.

She arrives around midnight each night, though the depot doesn't officially open until 1 a.m. The morning newspaper arrives in trucks from the Tiedeman production facility, warm and bundled, at about 1:30, and Mercadante begins the daily management of her distributors — 108 union drivers and 18 part-timers — who deliver not only the PD, but the Sun News and the Wall Street Journal and The New York Times and USA Today to the thousands of subscribers in the region.

"I'm the bad guy," Mercadante jokes. "Nobody around here likes me." But she says someone has to remind the distributors of the contracts they signed, has to reinforce their commitment to the readers who expect a newspaper when they wake up (and who are eager to call and complain if an edition is late or absent). "It really is all about the customer," Mercadante says. "That's the bottom line."

In her long career with the PD, much of the downsizing that she's experienced has been shared by consumers. The reduction from seven to four home delivery days, for example, complicates Mercadante's already complicated schedule — Mondays and Tuesdays are "skeleton days," she says. But other shrinkages aren't widely known.  
"When I started, there were 17 depots," Mercadante says. "Now there are four." Whether or not there will be further downsizing, she can only speculate. "I think there will always be the printed paper. Will there be home delivery? I don't know."
Mercadante used to be a distributor herself — "distributor" being the new and gender-neutral term for "paperboy" — working a three-street route from 1987 to 1996 as she raised two young sons. She'd started on the path to becoming a dental hygienist, but working the route was a better fit with her home life. When she started at the depot, she was one of the only women employed, and she remains one of only two women in the PD's distribution leadership.
These days, she says she cherishes the slivers of time she enjoys with her husband — Saturday afternoons are special — and the fact that her social life hasn't been utterly destroyed. It's always a challenge, though, because, "If you want to go out, you're going to suffer the next day." She says she generally sleeps from about 6 p.m to 11 p.m., with an occasional catnap in the late morning or early afternoon.
"I'm eight years away from retirement and I still haven't adjusted," she says of her wee-hour life. "But the traffic? The traffic is awesome."

In her long career with the PD, much of the downsizing that she's experienced has been shared by consumers. The reduction from seven to four home delivery days, for example, complicates Mercadante's already complicated schedule — Mondays and Tuesdays are "skeleton days," she says. But other shrinkages aren't widely known.

"When I started, there were 17 depots," Mercadante says. "Now there are four." Whether or not there will be further downsizing, she can only speculate. "I think there will always be the printed paper. Will there be home delivery? I don't know."

Mercadante used to be a distributor herself — "distributor" being the new and gender-neutral term for "paperboy" — working a three-street route from 1987 to 1996 as she raised two young sons. She'd started on the path to becoming a dental hygienist, but working the route was a better fit with her home life. When she started at the depot, she was one of the only women employed, and she remains one of only two women in the PD's distribution leadership.

These days, she says she cherishes the slivers of time she enjoys with her husband — Saturday afternoons are special — and the fact that her social life hasn't been utterly destroyed. It's always a challenge, though, because, "If you want to go out, you're going to suffer the next day." She says she generally sleeps from about 6 p.m to 11 p.m., with an occasional catnap in the late morning or early afternoon.

"I'm eight years away from retirement and I still haven't adjusted," she says of her wee-hour life. "But the traffic? The traffic is awesome."