Mike’s Day Off
A short story about a janitor.
Tonight, like every night, is cold. The men huddle around the fire in jackets and jeans. Tight wool caps hug their heads.
Tall pines encircle them, as rigid and alert as totem poles, with bushy black branches that narrow into windows to reveal a thousand white stars. Behind them it is dark, but above them the sky is a gentle shade of dark blue.
The men watch the fire, heads and eyes drawn downward by its warmth and primordial ballet. It is a nice big fire with logs the size of a man’s arm and bright orange coals as big his knee.
The heat makes their arms hot. One man pulls his boots back after the rubber over his toes starts to smoke. Some rotate like spits; first warming the front until their sleeves are hot to the touch, then turning around to warm an icy backside.
Among these men is a boy named Jesse. He is leaning against a large rock near the fire. The rock is warm from its long slow slumber so close to such a large hearth. Jesse has a boyish face, with gentle checks and moist pink lips. His hair hangs past his shoulders in straight, well-conditioned sheets of pale blond.
His eyes are bright because he is laughing.
His best friend Mike is telling him a story, perched in a camp chair nearby, holding a beer.
