The rooftop was everything you’d expect: a mess of sticky black tar paper, a rusty but functional AC unit, a nest of crooked TV antennas.
Then there was the thing you wouldn’t expect: a thirty-year-old sitting alone, dangling his feet over the building’s edge.
I approached, getting awfully close before he even noticed.
“The fuck do you want?” the guy finally asked.
Told him I was new. Told him I was supposed to keep an eye on everything up here, whatever that meant.
He laughed.
“Not tonight, kid. I’m going over this edge eventually. Just not tonight.”
What a relief…
The Weekday One Hundred 