James Etheridge

It was twelve-thirty at night.  The man pulled the Volkswagen into his driveway, turned off the ignition, made the sign of the cross and said a thank you for deliverance from the lunatics and crazies on I-285 and I-20.  He unbuckled his seatbelt, let out a sigh, gathered his notebook, phone, eyeglasses and Yeti, opened the door and, with a loud groan from being on his feet for eight grueling hours on the concrete floor of a printing plant, got out of the car and stood up stiffly. He closed the door and locked it.  Walking slowly to the mailbox, the man looked up at the stars, the clouds and the waning crescent moon.  “God’s fingernail,” he said out loud.  That was what his wife called it.  It was an early June night, warm but not too muggy.  He took the mail out of the box, put it into the side pocket of his notebook and walked slowly up the driveway to his house.  He unlocked the back door, walked into the commons area and locked the door behind him.  He went into his office, placed his notebook on the desk, stepped back out into the commons area and unlocked the door to the den.

The man opened the door and the big whippet raised his head from his bed that was in front of the television.  The man dropped his keys into the key box and said, “Hello Roscoe.”  The dog stood up, shook himself, stretched and walked over to the man, wagging his tail.  He put his paws on the man’s knees and the man rubbed him behind his ears.  “Roscoe, how did I ever wind up with a dog as beautiful as you?” he asked.  “Every other dog I’ve ever had has been as ugly as sin.”  The dog took his paws off of the man’s knees, turned and trotted up the stairs to the kitchen.  The man walked slowly and laboriously up the steps, holding onto the handrail.  He was dead tired.  Due to the pandemic, work had slowed to the point where half the plant had been laid off.  His job was spared, but he had been moved from the day shift to the night shift.  The man hated the night shift.  He worked from three in the afternoon until eleven-thirty at night.  Due to the traffic, that meant he had to leave home at half-past one to make it to work by three.  The commute home only took about forty-five minutes, but it was terrifying because of the street racers running a hundred-plus miles per hour, weaving idiotically in and out of traffic.  The man was grateful that he still had a job, but he was getting too old for this shit.

He walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, took out the milk jug and filled the Yeti.  The man loved milk.  The ice-cold liquid flowed smoothly down his throat and he could feel it coating his stomach.  He drank the milk, poured the Yeti half full again and looked at Roscoe.  The dog was looking up at him, begging with his big brown eyes.  The man took a couple of treats out of the jar on the counter.  Roscoe took them gently and politely.  “Come on, old boy,” said the man.  “Let’s go to bed.”  He flipped off the lights over the sink and stove.  The dog went up the steps first.  The man followed him slowly, leaning on the handrail and trying not to make any noise.  He walked quietly by his wife’s bedroom.  He slept in a separate room because on his regular shift he rose very early in the morning and did not want to disturb her while he got ready for work.  Working the night shift, he did not want to wake her when he came in.  He walked into his bedroom and gently closed the door.

Roscoe jumped onto the bed and curled up in front of the pillows, watching the man’s every move.  The man emptied his pockets onto his dresser, sat down on the red wooden armchair in the corner and took off his shoes.  His feet, legs, back and neck immediately relaxed.  He let out a low groan.  “Oh, man, that feels good,” he whispered.  The man stood up, took off his belt and hung it in the closet.  He took off his shirt and trousers and hung them up.  He then took out his sweatpants, slipped them on, set his alarm, pulled the covers back, turned off the light and crawled into bed.  The big whippet stood up and nuzzled the top of his head against the man’s face.  Lying on his back, the man put his arm around the dog.  The dog laid down next to him and put his cold nose on the man’s cheek.  “Oh, Roscoe,” he said, “it’s so good to be home.  This is my favorite part of the day. You love me no matter what, don’t you old boy?” Roscoe let out a contented sigh.  Skin touched fur and he rubbed the dog’s soft coat slowly and tenderly.

The man began to think about work.  If he could make it through the summer, he would retire the following January. The company he worked for was one of the largest corporations in the world.  It was exactly a thirty-five mile commute from his driveway to the company parking lot.  The building he worked in had been built in the early Sixties.  Portions of it were literally falling apart.  There was no telling how much asbestos was in the ceilings or what was living in and behind the concrete block walls.  The property across the street once was a thriving General Motors plant that had been built in the late Forties but had fallen victim to the company’s cost cutting and downsizing in the wake of the economic crash of 2008.  It was demolished after sitting empty for seven years, and the man couldn’t help but wonder if after it had been razed that most of the indigenous wildlife living in and around the abandoned plant had fled across the street to their building.

The property was eventually re-zoned and a large movie studio was built on a back corner, directly across the street from their plant.  Plans were approved and construction began on a multi-use community that would consist of movie studios, streets, parks, condos and apartments.  The man knew that it was just a matter of time before their antiquated building became high-dollar real estate, the property sold, the building torn down and a high-rise parking deck built in its place.  He wondered if it would be announced at an unexpected company-wide meeting or if one morning everyone would show up for work only to find the doors padlocked and signs posted telling them the plant’s closed, don’t call us, we’ll call you.  Hopefully he would be long gone by then.

The big whippet stood up and pawed at the covers.  The man held up the comforter and the dog crawled under it, circled around three or four times and plopped down, his back against the man’s leg.  The man rolled onto his side, snuggled up to the dog and put his arm across him on top of the comforter.  “Good night, Roscoe,” said the man.  The dog sighed contentedly again.  “Six more months, old boy” said the man.  “Hopefully, six more months.”