The presses are silent. There are no whirs and clicks and clanks as paper advances from plain to printed. There is no pressman to bring them to life and never will be again.
The building is mostly silent. The computers are humming but the fluorescent lights aren't buzzing as much because the new ballasts somehow prevent some of the buzzing. The refrigerator died a few years ago so the sound of its compressor is no longer here. The furnace hasn't run for a day or two because of the warmer weather. The phone seldom rings.
There is no Greg. There is no fussing at the press because it isn't printing to suit him. There is no singing and guitar playing. There is no asking me what I want for lunch. There is no conversation with a buddy about gun trading. There is no Greg.
Many times through the years, when Greg was elsewhere, someone would come into the shop and say, "It's quiet in here." I'd usually reply, "Greg's not here." I was halfway joking, but it was true -- Greg was the heart and soul of the shop. Although I was here more hours than he was, the building always seemed to need his presence.
The tables by the presses, where ink knives, cotton pads, and bottles of alcohol and blanket wash reside, are unchanged. The ink in the presses is drying in the trays and dust settles on the frames -- but not paper dust. The amount of paper in the shop is dwindling.
I sort, discard, shred -- each thing I touch gives me pause. Did this job give Greg problems? Was it difficult to print? Was he pleased with it when he finished printing it? Did the customer appreciate Greg's expertise and caring?
Perhaps a silent building says it all.
