Overtime

OVERTIME

  A warm rain peppered the puddles scattered across the parking lot of the Savannah shipyard. The reflection of the lots security night lights was shattered into shards by the sudden squall. Carl Santos took a long last drag on his cigarette, rolled the driver’s window of his pickup halfway down, and pitched the butt onto the lot. He rolled the window up quickly and glanced at the watch he always wore. It had been a gift from his son, when he had a son, and had a leather band and glow in the dark hands. 10:55 p.m.

  Carl turned his collar up and jumped from his truck, glad to find that the rain had eased just then. He put his head down and began to cross the lot, a slight limp hinting at some distant injury or infirmity. Despite the drizzle Carl could smell the smoke seeping from a car parked in the lot. He heard the rhythmic thumping of an island beat, knowing full well whose car it was.

  Montel Ruggins ran his tongue along the seam of his spliff, holding it up to admire its perfection. The roach from his last joint still smoldered in the ashtray. Just as he flicked his lighter there was a rapping on his driver’s side window. Montel lowered the window part way.

  Outside stood Carl Santos, who shook his head as if in reproach, and tapped a finger on his watch.

  “Tick tock my man. Those ships aren’t going to load themselves!”

  Montel’s eyes narrowed to menacing slits. “What you got to go rouse me like that? I need to finish my medicine.” He pointedly took a long drag, then blew a stream at Carl through the open window. “So, shoo fly.” With this the window slid shut.

  Carl stepped from the night into the brightly lit warehouse. He plucked his timecard from the rack and dipped it into the machine, feeling the timestamp more than hearing it. The door opened and several more members of Carl’s crew came through, each punching their timecards in order. Carl was already mounted on his forklift, donning his hard hat, as Montel slipped in and punched his card. Carl looked at his watch. 11:06.

  “Hey Rasta, you sure you feel up to working tonight? You sure took a lot of “medicine”.”

  “Hey mon. Kibba yuh mouth!”, the slight Jamaican strode across the floor to confront Carl. “Better late than never, eh? My name is Montel, or Mr. Ruggins to you! I tell you before to not call me that!” Having said his piece, Montel turned away and was ready to have an end to it, but Carl couldn’t let the man walk away unscathed.

  “Lazy is as lazy does! Would it hurt you to be on time for once?”

  Montel spun in his tracks. “Would it hurt you to have a life outside dis place? You early every day just waiting to get started. Do you ever really go home?” He shook his head sadly and started to turn away. “Do you even have a home?”

  “You’re just like everyone from your God-forsaken island.” snapped Carl.

  This time when Montel turned there was a fiery spark in his eyes. His voice seemed to age and become deeper, more menacing.

  “I come from Alkebulan, swallower of islands. I bring curse upon you and call on Eshu, the Divine Trickster, to be the teacher of your lesson!” Montel stepped closer and pointed a crooked finger at Carl’s face. “YOU be on time!” For one of the few times in his life, Carl was speechless.

  The bustle of the shipyard during the night shift drove away Carl’s thoughts of the angry encounter, and before he knew it, he was clocking out and leaving the warehouse into a rainy, cloud-covered morning. He checked his watch as he punched out. 7:03. He could see that Ruggins had left the lot already, so he made his way to his pickup. His anger rose as he approached and saw something on the hood of his truck. He knew that this hadn’t just fallen from the sky. Someone had put it here! He took a closer look at the chicken bone cracked nearly in half. There were still morsels of chicken on the bone. He threw it aside with a curse.

  “Damn chicken eatin’ son of a bitch!”

  The blare of Carl’s alarm startled him awake. He moaned, feeling like he had just closed his eyes. He struggled through his waking routine, feeling groggy from sleeps lingering grasp. He made no move to muffle his banging about, knowing that there was no one to disturb anymore. He reached for his keys, glancing at his watch. 10:22.

  Sitting in the parking lot, smoking his cigarette, Carl replayed in his mind the previous night’s encounter with Montel. He had decided that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to fuel a feud. After all, he couldn’t be certain that it was Montel who had laid the bone on his hood. Montel isn’t even here yet, so maybe the problem has solved itself. He checked his watch then headed across the lot. 10:56. His last thought of Montel was that he must have taken the shift off for some reason. Soon he was lost in the soothing chaos of activity.

  Punching out, he saw as he opened the door that the morning’s weather was even wilder than the day before. He looked at his watch before he sprinted across the lot. 7:06.

  Carl awoke with a start. He was in the driver’s seat of his truck. He was holding a lit cigarette in his left hand. He frantically looked around him at the parking lot of the warehouse he worked at. Lightning lit the parking lot temporarily. Carl froze. After a minute, he turned on his windshield wipers, wiping away the rain’s milky distortion. But only for a moment. He felt like the windshield. A moment of clarity drowned quickly by the torrent. Suddenly, the wipers and the lightning found their rhythm to allow Carl a clear, well-lit view of the lot. His brain felt loose in his head, spinning one way then another.

  Across the lot, Montel Ruggins stood in the rain next to his car, staring directly at Carl. His face appeared as a carved wooden mask, ancient and unknowable. Eyes locked with Carl’s; he raised one arm before him. Then with the other hand he tapped his wrist and silently mouthed “Tick tock”. Carl looked at his watch in a panic. 10:58?  He looked back up, but Montel had disappeared, so he bolted from his truck, somehow managing to punch in on time.

   Despite looking for him, Carl didn’t see a glimpse of Montel all night. His shift was strange. He found himself losing focus, and more than once his balance. He felt like he was in a dream and couldn’t wake up, and unheeded images of that broken chicken bone kept flashing in his head. He practically staggered to the time clock at the end of his shift. He checked his watch then pulled his timecard. 7:04. He slid the stiff cardboard into the slot, and he could feel the keys punching their stamp. Wearily he turned to the door, but it opened before he could reach it. A group of fellow workers coming in? From the night? His head spun like his rising panic. The last of the group was Montel Ruggins, who sported a grin from ear to ear.

  “Ya mon. You live your work, before long you live to work. Then before you know it, you work to live. Hurry mon, don’t be late!” His lilting laughter mocked his tormentor.

  Carl Santos checked his watch. 10:59.

THE END