Mr. Smith had been working as a hospital head janitor for more than a decade. He knew the ins and outs of the building like the back of his hand, and could navigate the maze-like hallways without even thinking.
But every payday, something inside him changed. At around 2:00 p.m., when his shift was nearly over and the adrenaline rush of cleaning up after sick and dying patients had worn off, Jim would grab a stack of wet floor signs and make his way down to the first floor.
Once there, he would block off one end of the hallway with the signs, ensuring that no one would be able to get through. Then, he would sneak out behind the building, where he had stashed a bottle of cheap whiskey by the dumpster.
There, surrounded by the hum of generators and the distant wail of ambulance sirens, Mr. Smith would take a long, slow drink. He relished the burn of the alcohol as it slid down his throat, washing away the stress and pain of his workday.
Sometimes, he would stay out there for hours, leaning against the rough bricks of the hospital and staring up at the blue sky. Other times, he would take a quick swig and rush back inside, pretending he had just been taking out the trash.
Nobody ever caught on to his little secret. But Mr. Smith knew that he was taking a risk every time he snuck out to drink. If he ever got caught, he would surely lose his job and his reputation.
Still, he couldn't help himself. There was something about that moment, that small slice of peace in an otherwise chaotic and painful world, that made it all worth it.
And so, every payday around 2:00 p.m., Mr. Smith blocked off the hallway and slipped out into the shadows. It was a small act of rebellion, a small act of self-care, that made all the housekeepers mad with him every pay day.