Of course, he should have taken the elevator. On the second floor landing he stopped to shift the heavy saxophone case that was aggravating his arthritic shoulder. He listened to the sound of his wingtip shoes against the cement stairs that reverberated in the tall silence as if some fool were beating a gong for every year he’d spent at Golden Valve. It occurred to him that this extra 6 a.m. exercise was about buying time to sidestep the truth that he was unprepared for this last day.
The door to the molding room stood ajar an hour before first shift. He stepped inside and stared into the early morning silence, waiting for something ominous to reveal itself. Rows of tall round-top windows filled with sultry summer sky marched off to the far end in lockstep with rows of columns and lines of tan machines punctuated by scarred linoleum tables. Overhead fans stirred the soon-to-be oppressive air. He switched on the noisy air conditioners, set down the sax and briefcase, which in a fit of unprecedented efficiency the night before he’d purged of every paper. Why had he brought it? Habit. Just the old habit of feeling undefined without it.
Pacing down the center aisle, he stopped to stare at one of the cutting blades under its plastic safety shield, and remembered the dream that had woken him at dawn where the same blade had edged into his chest, slicing it open rib-by-rib, as if performing a triple-bypass. Unable to sleep, he’d...
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