Night watchman I

Night Watchman

Clyde M Brewer, 36 years old, works the graveyard shift. He is the night watchman. It was his lucky evening. The day shift left a box of donuts in the lunchroom. It is three o’clock in the morning and he has five more hours to go. He is bored out of his skull. He knocked off his sixth donut of the evening and washed it down with a tepid cup of thermos java. He fired up a Pell Mell king size non filter with his trusty brass zippo. It was the last one in the pack. It is a good thing he had a fresh pack in his vest, he thought, as he tapped his pocket to make sure that the next 20 “Red Deaths” were there. They were. He felt secure knowing he had a fresh pack to help him make through the night. He crushed the empty pack and flipped it toward the garbage cans. He missed his target but hit one of the cats. The cat arched his back, hissed and to off running into the shadows. Brewer coughed and hacked up a gob of lung gunk and spit it on to the tracks. When he was finished with the smoke, he ground the butt out with the toe of his shoe. He stood silent, arms akimbo, and observed the area for a few minutes. All was quiet. He took the fresh pack from his vest and went through an elaborate ritual opening the pack. He took out a smoke, fired it up, and took a deep drag, then another before flipping the butt onto the tracks. He contemplated going down to the lunchroom and snagging another donut. A filled maple bar this time, he thought. He looked at his Timex. It was six minutes past three in the morning. He had four hours and fifty four minutes to go.

 

Done