Dog Star Blues

The squat, ugly facility was abandoned at this hour; only the sleepy security guard and the janitor roamed its halls.

The janitor was an old man, his back stooped from years of service. He wore flannel pants cinched with  frayed suspenders. A seersucker shirt held his cigarettes in a breast pocket, and he found it comfortable with the sleeves rolled up. His pate glistened in the weak light as he pushed ahead a mop and bucket.

The halls were his. He knew each inch of it, and how it changed from night to night. He was very efficient at his job and, as is the ken of efficient janitors, was invisible to the people who worked there. It appeared that litter picked themselves up and damaged non-essential equipment miraculously repaired themselves.  He liked it this way.

Every night, his route would lead from the front, publicly accessible areas to the clandestine top secret chambers at the rear of the facility. Every night at 3:13 PM he would take his impressive array of keys and open an unmarked door. He would stand there for a few minutes, and gaze upon a silvery craft in the shape of a wok. Its hatch had been opened, disgorging a ramp. Then he would close the door and go outside for a cigarette.

It was the only indulgence he allowed himself in this life. He gazed upon the sky at Sirius, the dog star. It was an ice blue chip in a vault of glittering diamonds. He looked at it until he finished his cigarette. He was stuck here until they figured out to repair the ship, then he could finally go home. Fifty years was already too long.

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Janitor

Area 51

Flying saucer

The End

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