• The unread bits of newspaper fluttered around and around on the ruined pavement. The pieces of discarded trash rolled silently down the road, uncared for and forgotten. The smoke from the chimneys rose high in the air, where it disappeared into thin night sky. The moon was blocked out by polluted smog and clouds, and only the many flickering street lights lit the way. Chicago slept a quiet sleep, undisturbed by the usual small parties, the dancing that was shared among those who were happy. But in these times it seemed as though no one was happy.
    Henry Johnson was one of those unhappy souls, sitting alone on the curb, occasionally picking up a floating by newspaper and reading the headlines, then throwing it back out and waiting for the next one. His brown hair was swept up in the wind around his brown hat; his brown coat and brown pants shook and were caught up in the passing breeze. He looked into the night sky, waiting for something to happen among the covered stars.
    “Out again? Jeez, what is this? Your sixth time?” the light-hearted landlord strolled into the near empty street.
    “It’s shooting star season you know, Al.”
    Albert’s squeaky voice cut through the following silence. “Sure is a nice night.”
    “Yeah. Sure is.”
    “You know, you need something to cheer you up.”
    “Like a drink?”
    “Aw, come on. I mean, I know it’s not legal or anything, but that shouldn’t stop you. I’ll admit, once in a while even I take a sip.”
    Henry cocked back his hat, replying, “Yeah.”
    “Well, what I really mean is, get a girl or something, find a nice friend to take you somewhere. You used to be a real happy fellow, you know.”
    “I know.”
    The two sat in the street talking about nothing in particular, letting the warm breeze brush past them. After a while the landlord walked back to the poor hotel, calling behind him something about curfew time. Henry sat out for a while, then got up. Taking a last look at the night sky, he walked back to his apartment.
    The sound of the busy city woke him in the morning. What once was a quiet city was now flooded with energy. Taking a look at the old clock next to him, he cursed and set it down none too carefully. He wasn’t up and ready with his suit until another hour. He tucked in his shirt and filled up his suitcase with meaningless papers. Henry trudged down the creaking stairs in a business-like manner. Al was downstairs as usual, bringing in the mail.
    “Oh, hey! What’s this, Henry, got a job?”
    Henry ignored his warm smile. “Well, I think I just lost it. Fix your damn clock alarm.”
    The cheerful landlord raised his eyebrows and shrugged, letting the well-built Henry brush past.
    Henry walked through the bustling city streets, his 5’9” frame easily pushing past the smaller people on the sidewalks. The cars weaved in and out of the street without order, their engines humming loudly and the smog pouring out into the air, only to be caught among the other smoke filling the air. Above, the monorail clattered noisily along the rusted metal, leaving the city full of the sound of grating and grinding. The shops and stalls were making poor business in these times, though, and the usual crowded business now had only three, four, or sometimes five people buying their wares. Besides that, you couldn’t find the polite pedestrian anymore; all seemed angry or even crestfallen.
    Henry arrived at the bank at 8:30. He looked up at the golden lettering: Harrison Credit and Bank. The brick building leaned to the right a bit, the mortar crumbling and the bricks losing its paint. Its bell tower at the top stood firm though the building faltered. Its marble supports held up the ornate top, and in turn the top was fastened to the old bell of the city. The clock below it was just ticking to 8:31, and he stormed in gripping the handle tighter. Work started at 8:00.