9 views
The Writer
#WritcoStoryPrompt47
He unlocked a door and led me through an office that was empty of furniture, although I could still see square clean patches on the grimy linoleum, where the legs of a desk had once stood. On the wall was a curling calendar with April 1989 showing.
“I was the writer that sat at a desk that once was here”. The man gestured toward those square clean patches of linoleum on the floor. The ones free of grime and dirt and detritus.
“It was a plain affair, but sturdy. Built by the Union Furniture Company.”
My eyes traced his gesture to where his old desk once stood. The contrast between the accumulated dirt on the floor and the place where the legs had been was clear. I realized it had been some time since the desk had occupied that sullen space, or more importantly, it had been quite some time since the room itself was free of grime. The square patches of clean flooring were themselves dirty, though cleaner than the floor itself. Perhaps he was a man unconcerned with cleanliness, or perhaps he was a man consumed by his trade, so much so that janitorial tasks were of no consequence to him. Either way, it was of little concern, as I had no love for such menial tasks.
“Where is the desk now?” I questioned the man and looked around the room. It was small and plain, with a single window that faced the gray urban waste of Chicago. Plaster walls, common for buildings in this part of the city, appeared yellow. Stained with age and nicotine. The surface was filthy, but the walls blended well with the flooring. Small sections of rough lathe strapping were exposed in areas of the room that saw the most use. Alongside the door, at the bottom corners of that solitary window, a small section crumbling away by the vent near where that desk had been. I noticed that the broken and peeling plaster was thicker in some areas, built up of many layers, enough to make the walls uneven and lumpy in appearance. I suspected countless repairmen had completed the myriad of repairs and patchwork over decades. Each with varying degrees of skill. Every layer and skim coat that was plastered on those crumbling old walls was of a different texture and tinted in a different colour. Some of those layers were brighter than others, and some were cleaner. The room was all grime and stain and dirt and age. The pattern stamped on the linoleum floor in some bygone age when it was new, now lost. Worn away in most places and covered in a brackish layer of dust and the grime of the city.
“I had the desk removed two weeks ago.” The man lit a cigarette. “The desk is the writers, the room is not.”
“Mm-mm, I suppose”. I agreed and continued surveying the room with a view of the city. So much dirt, I thought. So many layers of dust and dirt and taint. That entire room was in a terrible state. Even parts of the ceiling were sagging and stained with black patches. Mold, I suspected. Water damage and disrepair over many years had seeped into the floorboards and joists above. The rot was prevalent and the musty odour was thick in the stale air of the room, yet the fragrance competed with the smell of old tobacco smoke.
The window itself...
He unlocked a door and led me through an office that was empty of furniture, although I could still see square clean patches on the grimy linoleum, where the legs of a desk had once stood. On the wall was a curling calendar with April 1989 showing.
“I was the writer that sat at a desk that once was here”. The man gestured toward those square clean patches of linoleum on the floor. The ones free of grime and dirt and detritus.
“It was a plain affair, but sturdy. Built by the Union Furniture Company.”
My eyes traced his gesture to where his old desk once stood. The contrast between the accumulated dirt on the floor and the place where the legs had been was clear. I realized it had been some time since the desk had occupied that sullen space, or more importantly, it had been quite some time since the room itself was free of grime. The square patches of clean flooring were themselves dirty, though cleaner than the floor itself. Perhaps he was a man unconcerned with cleanliness, or perhaps he was a man consumed by his trade, so much so that janitorial tasks were of no consequence to him. Either way, it was of little concern, as I had no love for such menial tasks.
“Where is the desk now?” I questioned the man and looked around the room. It was small and plain, with a single window that faced the gray urban waste of Chicago. Plaster walls, common for buildings in this part of the city, appeared yellow. Stained with age and nicotine. The surface was filthy, but the walls blended well with the flooring. Small sections of rough lathe strapping were exposed in areas of the room that saw the most use. Alongside the door, at the bottom corners of that solitary window, a small section crumbling away by the vent near where that desk had been. I noticed that the broken and peeling plaster was thicker in some areas, built up of many layers, enough to make the walls uneven and lumpy in appearance. I suspected countless repairmen had completed the myriad of repairs and patchwork over decades. Each with varying degrees of skill. Every layer and skim coat that was plastered on those crumbling old walls was of a different texture and tinted in a different colour. Some of those layers were brighter than others, and some were cleaner. The room was all grime and stain and dirt and age. The pattern stamped on the linoleum floor in some bygone age when it was new, now lost. Worn away in most places and covered in a brackish layer of dust and the grime of the city.
“I had the desk removed two weeks ago.” The man lit a cigarette. “The desk is the writers, the room is not.”
“Mm-mm, I suppose”. I agreed and continued surveying the room with a view of the city. So much dirt, I thought. So many layers of dust and dirt and taint. That entire room was in a terrible state. Even parts of the ceiling were sagging and stained with black patches. Mold, I suspected. Water damage and disrepair over many years had seeped into the floorboards and joists above. The rot was prevalent and the musty odour was thick in the stale air of the room, yet the fragrance competed with the smell of old tobacco smoke.
The window itself...
