The Changing

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Harry Simons called, "Okay, melon-head, come on outta there. This ain't a friggin' zoo! Some of us got work to accomplish." Harry was a large, strong man, his face shot through with the lines of age and work and living, but his voice had a small whisper of fear in it, as if his gut was telling him something that his head was denying. His head was telling him that Halloween was a long way off, but that some people would do anything for a laugh, and his gut was telling him that whoever was idiot enough to go running around dressed like that might also be idiot enough to carry the act a little further.

Harry Simons liked his job in Emulsion Coating at Kodak Park. He liked the constant, comforting hum of the big, shiny, beige-colored machines; he liked the machines themselves-they were, he'd once told his wife, "like, you know, symbols of industry," which he thought was a good and true and simple observation. And he didn't mind the hours of aloneness here-because the big beige coating machines very nearly ran themselves. It had taken a while to get used to, sure. Several years, in fact. But he had grown used to it. He'd grown to prize it. Just him-Harry Simons-and the low, constant hum of the big, beige-colored machines.

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