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Untitled (3/21/24)

“It is not your duty to finish the work,” grumbles the janitor to himself, “but neither are you at liberty to neglect it.” His squeegee chirps against the frosty glass. One hundred thirty-five thousand, six hundred and forty-two. A third of the way there. The janitor’s efforts reveal the frozen face within the tube. “C’mon, popsicle,” he hums, “let’s get you cleaned up.”

The janitor’s long since stopped bothering to wonder what the passengers are like. Was this one a celebrity? Was that one a politician? They all look the same to him. They blur together in his mind. Cryogenic stasis has a way of stripping the individuality from a person. Doesn’t matter to him. Shouldn’t. They’re all just popsicles. Hell, if he’s lucky, his grandchildren’s grandchildren might get to watch them thaw out. Lotta (figurative) ground left to cover before their alarm goes off. Meanwhile, his jolts him out of bed bright and early every morning.

This, all day, every day, until he dies and his contractually mandated son and/or daughter take up the squeegee. Hm. He should get on that. Might break up the monotony a little.

The janitor chuckles. “Who’s got time for that.” Brandishing his squeegee, he saunters over to tube 135,643.