Closing Time

     When 7 hit, Mr. Drummel could be found upstairs, counting the money and, generally, feeling the completion of the day. Santos came up as he always did and said, "the bins are inside and the street is swept."
     And, like he always did, Mr. Drummel said. "Thank you. Have a good night."
     And just like that, Santos went away, and Mr. Drummel was alone. No one knew, but Mr. Drummel didn't immediately finish his tasks. No, he sat there at the desk, and he daydreamed about all the things he thought he'd be doing with the stage of life he was now in. The places he'd be seeing. The beaches he'd be on. And no, he wasn't close to abandoning it all for those distant environs, but he had to move away in his mind from his place of business in the moment when he could. In the moments before his wife would be expecting him.

     It was the necessary therapy to repair his feeling of being hostage to his circumstances, because it was a 12 hour a day seven day a week job he had crafted for himself, and, quite frankly, he was an old man now, the age at which people sit alone in their garages whittling wood with a baseball game on.

     But, a little bit of daydreaming went a long way to feeling better, to feeling like he could wake up again at 5:30 in the morning and do it all over again. Of course, his wife was always amenable to opening up without him, but the day was always too fast for him when he waited to show up, though his body would sometimes not comply with his wishes for it and he would be left with no choice.

     He thought about his son, and whether his son would take his place when he got older, and it seemed unlikely. He wanted to go to Arizona in the fall, and Anders had a feeling his son would not be back soon. In the summers, sure, but then he'd expect to get a job in an office, and go on and do great things.

     Santos, yes, Santos could take it over, but if Santos were working 12 hours a day seven days a week, he couldn't really pay him. He'd have to be a part owner, and just do all that work basically for free. He didn't think Santos really would. Anders didn't really think he should himself. What kind of life was that?

     So, he thought to himself, he ought to sell. Ought to sell to someone at the age where he had begun, ready to invest young energy into the place and make it beautiful again. But when he thought of selling his business, he thought, what was it worth? A hundred thousand, at least. But a million dollars? No one would pay it. Half a million? If he was lucky. Assuming 30 more years of life, that was just $17,000 a year. That was enough to eat and pay the bills, but not anything more.

     And what about Damien's college? His graduation? When he wanted to start a family? When he had a child? Or several children? Their education? Their families? Would he be a pauper, after all that hard work?

     There was nothing to do with it, except work it. To keep working it until the wheels fell completely off, and hope that somehow, still, things worked out.

     And that's just how he'd have to live.