To the night watchman the warehouse is never empty. Every shadow is potentially dangerous. Every odd sound or noise sends a chill up their spine. Anything unexplained is something else. Their shift gets measured in cups of coffee and their hourly checks are made with the reluctance of a trip to the dentist. The sleeping forklifts seem almost prehistoric, the incessant hum of the office lights sound like bug zappers. Tall stacks of wooden pallets create eerie shadows across drab safety posters.
When the first person
on the day shift shows up for work, the night watchman can suddenly feel
himself breathe again. Someone else is
here, there is another car in the parking lot, another voice, the sound of someone else’s
coins falling into the vending machine.
Life is good. Maybe this afternoon I'll pick up fresh flashlight batteries, just in case, and maybe check the want ads.
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