Jon, The Brainworker

Jon, The Brainworker

© 2004 Sam Liddicott

Jon opened one eye. On the opposite wall there were the shadows of the clutter on the window sill. The pile of plates cast a shadow like some kind of tree with the past weeks knives and forks looking like so many spindly branches as if more growth was too much effort for such a shadow as this. As the sunlight passed through a half full glass of dusty drink it cast a bright pattern on the wall with a shimmering beauty caused through the efforts of heavy traffic outside.

Jon noticed none of this. He saw nothing unexpected, nothing to require further examination of his surroundings. His eye closed.

He rolled over and briefly considered the chances of finding something clean to wear. A moments thought concluded that it would not be worth the effort of getting out of bed. It seemed to be late evening. If he spend long enough thinking, the laundrette would be closed – that was some consolation.

The shadows of the plates and drinks in the reddening light seemed to wake some recollection in his empty mind. Food! If the laundrette was closed, so was the shop. John stirred. If only he could see the clock at the other side of the room. He smirked when he remembered the sound it made when it hit the wall – when had that been?

He rolled out of bed onto his knees and struggled up. He gathered nearby clothes onto his bed-sheet and checked the pockets for enough change for a wash and dry. He would do without the powder if necessary, but not the dry. Nice, warm clothes, warm sheets to snuggle down in. He pulled the corners of the sheet into a bundle and shuffled down the steps.

The laundry and the shop had been closed for an hour, but on the way back an old lady gave him a pound.

Jon didn't put the sheet back on the bed, it didn't seem worth it.