By Anahita Riyaz
HOONK, BWAAAH, TOOOT! The boats in the lake in Chicago honked so cacophonously loud that I could hear them all the way up on the 27th floor of the Chicago Tribune. The horns were loud—especially for a Friday afternoon.
Ding!! The bell rang, signaling the end of the workers’ day and the start of the weekend. People rushed out the doors in such glee to go home to families and children and to veg out. As usual, I was in front of the entrance, making sure that no one suspicious got in.
The janitors and cleaners, who spoke in different languages, including Arabic, Chinese, and Spanish, mopped, scrubbed, and dusted the place vigorously. I headed up to the top floor, and I could hear my footsteps echo in the grimy darkness. It was so quiet!
I walked to my normal spot in front of the window to guard the vault inside. I peered out the window, noticing that it was now nighttime. I watched the bright lights of cars flash in bright reds and whites. The moon was luminous, a perfect white reflecting on the lake’s teal waters.
A chill of cold air fluttered around the floor, which was probably from a cracked window. I abandoned my post and closed it before the room froze. I checked my watch, and it said 12:30. That meant that it was time for me to go home. As another watchman walked to my post with his bulldog on a leash, I leaned toward a pillar and simply enjoyed the view from my area, gazing at the dazzling sprinkles of rain dropping, which scintillated in the moonlight.
Chicago at night was beautiful, and I had the best place to see it.
THE END
