My day shift is over twelve hours now. I dont mind the extra work, i like the Spring-time. Walking to work I pour black coffee from a thermos into my favorite conch shell cup, then return the thermos to it's pouch. I've been trying to just have water in the morning, but I didn't sleep well last night.

Ahead, rising up out of sight is a hugh stone tower. In contrast to the ancient stone, a simple steel ladder scales the tower's side. The original climbing holds became too worn out to use. Next to the ladder are two pegs. On one is my glossy yellow slicker. On the other, my colleague's street jacket. I hang up my coat, put on the slicker and check the pocket for my key. It's there. I put my shell cup in the other pocket.

Feeling slow, I mope my way up the ladder. Fifteen, thirty, sixty minutes I climb very high. The secret of my commute, don't look down.

The ladder ends at the top of the platform. I step out onto the flat surface of the tower. My colleague leans against the railing and looks off to the west. She wears a slicker, so matte black, it is difficult to look at. Fortunately for her, she is inside it.

She turns to me, "What's happening, dude?"

She likes to be colloquial. So do I sometimes but today I respond by touching my left thumb to the second digit of my index finger. I raise this sign to her because it is the oldest greeting I know. She returns the sign and I begin my preparations.

My first task each day is to go to the Book of Eternity, a massive tome set into a stone pedastile, which runs down the core of the tower. walking up to the book, I read today's date on the open page.

People think the day changes at midnight. The truth is that I do it. The actual end of the night is marked by a particular star dipping below the horizon. Since the universe is in motion, it is a different star each night.

Before I begin my shift I must turn the page to tomorrow and read the instructions for starting the day. Small sparks surround my fingers as they near the book. The page crackles as it flips. I look at the new charts and graphs, scan the tides and check the star map. I ready the clock, calculate the parallax, figure the position of the marker star and set up the pointer. Viewing down the arm of the pointer, I see that there's a few minutes before the star disappears, before I start the new day.

I look at the land below. Street lights and headlights make a glow. The lights of the factory seem always to be on. So much light, it covers the land like a dome. Little by little, more and more each day this background light has been getting brighter. It was only an annoyance, until yesterday.

My colleague continues, "I think we are going to have a problem again today."

Looking only at her face, I say, "I know we are going to have a problem."

I sight down the pointer and see that the star is about to slip away. Out of my pocket I take my key. About 3 inches long, it glows with the brightness of a candle flame. Quite beautiful. Checking the pointer again, I watch the star vanish below the horizon.

I step over to the machine and look at the panel with its two key holes. One is empty and the other contains my colleagues key. Her's has a child's pog hanging from a chain.

"What's that key chain about?" I ask.

"It's my daughter's. I brought it for luck."

"How old is your girl now?"

"5 eons," she replies.

The banter doesn't make me feel less worried.

My colleague wants to go but she cannot remove her key until I insert mine. When I turn my key, it should activate the machine and release her key. This is what it has always done. Yesterday the glow of the man-made lights, was as bright as the brightness of my key. My key did not register in the delicate machine. i turned it but the day did not start. waiting a moment, I tried the key again, and it worked. This has never happened before.

Since the modern era, each night there are more lights. I am afraid as I face the panel and insert my key. I tense as I turn it. Nothing happens. I try it again. Nothing.

"You're becoming obsolete."

My colleague's words sting me, because I think it may be so.

"They make their own light," she continues, "they think they don't need you. They have lights for growing plants and for selling beer, and all those video displays. They even say now that you're poisoning them, giving them cancer."

I stare at the panel and the pog key chain hanging from her ancient key.

"Without me," I say, "there is only you. If my key doesn't work, the day doesn't start."

I shudder with the thought of this and try the key again. Nothing happens. Below, we both see some of the lights go out.

"Try it now," she says.

I turn the key. The machine engages. Dawn's pink appears. Birds awake.

My colleague takes her key out of the machine and puts it in her slicker pocket. She walks to the ladder, turns, starts going down then stops.

"I will be back later and my key will work. They can make light, but they can't make dark."

Her hooded head disappears beneath the edge of the platform. I pour another shell-full of coffee, gulp down my apprehension and begin my shift.

The End.

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Songs from the Industrial Zone