I'll rest when I'm dead," he had said, as he took another stack of manila envelopes to his desk. "When I take my dirt nap, then I'll relax."
And when the time came, he welcomed it. He was in his late 70s by then, and tired, so very tired. He didn't expect it to be like this. He had had faith, in God or whatever high power that he'd get to rest on a fluffy cloud for all of eternity. Instead-
"You didn't punch your card." The woman peered over her rhinestone rimmed glasses.
"I didn't bring it," he shrugged.
She stared at him, perturbed. Without blinking, she reached to a pile next to her and handed him thick paper. He slid it through the machine next to her, and quickly walked away, tucking it into his back pocket. This place, this was not what he had hoped for. He had been assigned thunder. That was his job, in the factory of heaven. The walls wept from the precipitation in the room. They were the weather division, bringing on all sorts of terrible storms and sunshine. He sat down at his station along the conveyor belt, put on his ear muffs. He lifted his hammer, smashing it against a small stone. It boomed, echoing through out the whole of the factory. Beside him, Larry tried to captor the sounds in a mason jar, to be sealed and released during the next storm. Sighing, he hit the stone again, and again, and again.
He was never sure how much time passed. It all worked so differently, from earth. When his shift was over, he trudged across the factory, passed the woman who cut out snowflakes, and the boy who counted rain drops. Passed Marge, who blew and blew and blew into a pipe, creating wind, and Jordan who had fallen asleep at the sun station, again.
He added this to his list of regrets. He wished he had spent his youth, his life enjoying some of these storms, enjoying anything. Even in death, he was tired, he was over worked, he was ready for an end. He punched his card, and made his way back to the tiny apartment he occupied, one of millions.
"Ain't no rest for the wicked," Larry sighed.