The Night Watchman
Lao Qin has watched the shut-down factory district for twenty years; each night he hears the farthest row of lathes run, as if men were still on shift. The night before demolition, all the lathes ring out together, as if the old hands finished their last shift.
Lao Qin has watched the old factory district on the city's edge for twenty years.
The plant shut down long ago, the machines gone cold, and only Lao Qin remains, walking his rounds at night with a flashlight — against scrap thieves, stray dogs, anyone lighting a fire. The district is huge; wind through the empty shops whistle like people still on overtime.
The strange thing is the machine sound.
Every time he reaches the farthest row of machine shops, he hears the lathes clack, as if someone were cutting steel. But the shop is empty, the breakers pulled, no reason to run. His flashlight finds the machines still, a layer of dust on the sheet metal, not a footprint.
The first time, Lao Qin took it for the wind. But it came every night, on the hour, like a shift change.
He asked an old coworker who used to work there. The man said this row of shops, in the last lean years, the old hands hated to leave; with no work they still came, wiping machines, test-running them, saying a hand must not go rusty. Then the plant folded and the old hands scattered; some, leaving, looked back at the lathe many times.
Lao Qin said nothing.
From then, whenever he heard that row of shops, he did not go in, did not throw the breaker — he just stood at the door, keeping the "still-on-duty" men company until they finished their bit. The night the demolition notice came, he patrolled to the end and that row of lathes rang out all together, fuller than ever, then went silent. Lao Qin stood at the door a long while and said: shift's done, go on home.
Midnight Record note: A plant stops, but the work would not leave the old hands — a hand must not go rusty sounds foolish, yet it is a lifetime's duty. Lao Qin's twenty years guarded not equipment but a band of men scattered yet still working the empty shops. The night of demolition, the lathes ringing together was not the machines' last light, but those men finally finishing their last shift. We all carry, somewhere, a row of "stopped" lathes still turning; for someone to stand at the door and hear you finish is dignity enough.