Skeleton Crew
Hard-earned sweat seeps onto the shabby charcoal carpet
Sweat rolls down Colin’s clean-shaven face, onto his pressed powder blue dress shirt, soaking it instantly. His curly black hair clings to his forehead and his rimless glasses have fogged up, coated with an unrelenting haze that matches his mood. He cleans them meticulously — for the third time — with a black microfiber cloth, which he tucks into his rear pants pocket before glancing to his left and then to his right with crystal clear vision to gauge how his co-workers are fairing with the air conditioning on the blink. Trixie is soaked to the skin, and Hank’s ruddy cheeks are slick. He dabs his damp forehead with a dingy crumpled handkerchief — pristine white less than an hour ago.
“I suspect we’re being deliberately tortured — it’s a concerted effort to keep us, lowly cogs in a corporate machine toiling for the greater good — come hell or highwater.” Colin sips tepid water from a paper cup; it scarcely soothes his parched throat but does little to cool him off.
“No doubt,” Trixie says, grimacing. “Mr. Savage is a real prick. This is cruel and unusual punishment.”
“It’s not like we have a choice, with bills to pay and families to feed,” Hank adds, as he wrings out his handkerchief. Hard-earned sweat seeps onto the shabby charcoal carpet underfoot. He slips the sodden cloth into his…
