Clocking Out for Good

Seven-twenty means the day shift is officially wrapped, and nobody is handing out overtime pay for lingering near that basement soda machine. I rode the elevator up, squeezed under our door sweep, and headed straight back to company headquarters. Right beside the warm cast-iron radiator pipes, someone had left an unsharpened flat carpenter's pencil lying on the floorboards. Proper lumbar support is hard to come by, so I dragged the cedar stick two inches closer with both hands and wedged it against the skirting board. I parked my rear right against the smooth wood, gave my blue tie one firm tug to ease my collar, and let out a long sigh. Perimeter cleared, zero citations, officially off the clock.