I find myself standing on the smart side of the yellow CAUTION tape. I peer into the darkness. I hear the wind flow through the concrete carcass. Bits of metal pinball from the ceiling and clatter across the factory floor. It is 5AM and my last night as a security guard on the graveyard shift. A few hours from now I will move to day shift after three and a half years walking around in the middle of the night.
They are tearing down my building.
It won't be fast. She'll linger for another nine months to a year. But soon she will transition into a dirt lot, then into something else.
The building was born in 1955, a year before I was born. Something important happened here and it is a shame that it will be probably be forgotten. Not even a plaque to celebrate all of the victories achieved inside. It seems silly, but it is like losing a friend. A friend that took good care of me. That gave me cubbyholes to write in and empty offices to grab a nap.
It is my nocturnal home away from home. I know it like the back of my hand. When the cart's headlights are out I can still drive because I know all 47 acres by heart. Every dark corner, every quiet spot, every sound.
When she is finally gone I will move on to another post. Life will move forward and so will I.
Standing in front of the caution tape in the middle of the day feels strange, but I'll adjust.
People might forget that something important happened here. But I won't.
Dan Farren is a writer living in California.