2 Days Left in Flash August Fiction | Ease Into the Week, Live Longer | It’s Friday, but this is a Monday story. The simple pleasures on the way to work at 5AM is what makes it bearable. Thanks for reading, listening, sharing, liking, and sharing. I’m glad you are here, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
The simple pleasures on the way to work at 5AM is what makes it bearable, especially Mondays. Burt, walking alone down the avenue sidewalk, is illuminated by the shoddy streetlights and the buzzy signs that some businesses leave on overnight. Cars on the avenue are sparse, it’s mostly delivery trucks.
He gets up nice and early, so he can take his time getting to work, and by the time he gets there, the sun is up and he’s wide awake. Burt approaches the six-corners intersection and turns left. There is the little shop where he gets his coffee. “Smokes – Candy – Soda – Coffee” The sign reads, in intermittent red and blue lettering, on a white background.
Burt nods to the guy he sees in there every morning. Burt has lived in the neighborhood for five years, he sees this guy almost every day he’s alive, and doesn’t know his name. The coffee is always ready, it’s fresh this early in the morning, and it’s strong. There is real half-and-half in the little sealed, plastic ramekins. From head to toe, Burt looks like he’s going to work. From his hard hat, to his work boots, it’s a stereotypical look, quite.
Burt mixes his coffee, taking a look at all the usual things he never buys, but once in a while a pair of the cheap work gloves, if they ever have the extra large size. He nods again to his best stranger-friend, who characteristically wishes him a good day at work. Burt drops a couple singles on the counter, slurps his coffee, and looks both ways as he exits the little shop.
The intersection, to his right, radiates a dull shimmer from the streetlight. At this time of morning the buzz and click of the switch on the light can be heard. To his left he can see the cloud of misty light from downtown, and the predawn swell of the highway overpass two blocks down. Across the street is the little triangle of the six-corners, where the subway entrance is, and the little newspaper shack, that, like a clock, is right on time opening up.
The shack attendant is cutting open the bundles of papers and magazines and stacking them in their places. He sees Burt and points to the counter. There they are, the fresh baked good the attendant brings every morning. They’re from a place a few blocks away, and they’re still warm from the oven. It’s a really, very tough call. There are bear claws, custard filled donuts with chocolate icing, cinnamon rolls, and Burt chooses an oversize croissant with maple butter saturating the interior. He slaps a five down onto the counter and slides it halfway under the bakery tray so it doesn’t blow away. He takes a pat of butter, and adds it to his coffee.
The subway entrance is right there, and Burt can hear the train that’s going in his direction, but he doesn’t care, that’s why he gets up early. He takes a seat on the bench with his coffee and danish. The next one will be by in about 20 minutes, and it’s an express. That’s his ride.
The sun is teasing the sky as Burt hears the next train. He drops his refuse into the bin, bending down to touch his toes and raising his arms to stretch. He takes the stairs, pays the fare, and by the time he gets down there, the train is pulling in. Burt gets into the hind car and sits in back, facing the rear.
It’s dark, and it’s just 500 feet before the subway rises from the tunnel to the elevated track. As the sunlight is beginning to overtake the dawn, Burt sees this city from a corridor of buildings on either side of him, with reflections of glass, and intervals of intersections. The views down each street are little worlds unto themselves.
At the next platform, the announcement is made that this train will run express to its final stop on the line. Burt watches the city roll off as the train vibrates, soothing him, taking him to a sleepy suburb. He drops his hat over his eyes, slides his feet out, and falls into a hypnagogic liminal doze. From this vantage he sees all manner of random images and scenes. With every jostle of the train, he enters another chapter. The orange dawn wetting his visions in sepia as his eyelids, sporadically give way, and close again with the vacillations.
Feedback from the speakers wake him as he has reached the end of the line. Exiting the train he again stretches out and does a knee bend. The platforms are filling up as the typical crowd smashes their bodies into the day.
Two blocks from his job site, Burt leaves the train station behind and enjoys this serene, near city suburban main street. The small grocery on the corner has just opened. Burt buys a single banana and has it swallowed as he finishes peeling it.
There is a noise ordinance to disallow any loud construction activity before seven AM. The labor crew is setting up some corners, a few of the bricklayers are getting into the mud. Burt prepares himself with a face shield and canister mask, an apron that covers down to his boots, some heavy gloves, and hearing protection. He looks up at the town clock tower, and he has about thirty seconds.
A few of the other guys are watching him, laughing and shaking their heads, they know what time it is. The foreman and the supervisor break from their conversation, smiling, and turn to see him.
Burt lowers his mask and raises his face shield as the second hand of the clock reaches the twelve.
Burt Howls and screams at the top of his lungs, “GOOOD MOOOORNNING SUUUNNSHIIINE!”
And he cranks up his stone cutting chop saw, revving it loudly, and purposefully. Passersby residents are amused at the event.
Burt lowers the spinning, ravenous blade, slowly into the stone.
“Just like butter.”
The End1005 Words.
