Short Story: The Hardworking Man
The alarm sounds as a rooster crows and the hardworking man lifts his head. Behind the blinds the sun is low, the sky cloudless, slate and dun, and it’s time for the hardworking man to prepare himself for the day. He will press the alarm, lift from the bed, tuck sheets beneath mattress, slide feet into slippers and drift towards the washbasin. It’s a Tuesday, 7am, autumn, 18°, but outside the leaves still cling to their branches like leeches.
In his bathroom the hardworking man stares at himself. He hasn’t shaved since Thursday morning and in five days a sparse growth of hair has developed on his chin. He scrubs a bar of hard soap into the scruff until a film of suds form within the hairs. He lifts razor to throat, the blade new and sharp and pulls it mechanically from jugular to chin. The hairs fall like feathers into the basin. The hardworking man dries his face.
Next, the toothbrush. It stands like a sentinel on the vanity, polished and postured with its bristled head at attention. He grips it, squeezes on a neat bead of paste, and brushes, or rather the brush brushes, while the hardworking man stands before his reflection, arm raised, mouth agape, wrist moving back and forth like a metronome. After four minutes the toothbrush lets off a tune and the hardworking man knows it’s time to finish brushing. So, he spits the scum and rinses, splashes his face once more, pats it dry with a herringbone flannel and drifts back into his bedroom.
Outside the sky hasn’t changed from the muted white-to-blue gradient of autumn sunrise, but the air is fresh and so the hardworking man pushes out the window, latches it open a wedge and breathes. He hears the rooster crow, but he does not know from where it comes. Towards the dressing room he drifts, pulling feet from slippers. He selects a navy suit jacket, black trousers, white shirt and paisley tie, which he tightens around his throat, snapping down the collar and gently rolling back his neck along its firm edge. It feels nice. He fastens seven buttons down his front, two at each wrist and relaxes into the same comforting stiffness of fabric around his cuffs.
Breakfast is a bagel, everything, peanut butter on one half, cream cheese and cucumber on the other. He eats it alongside a cup of home brew, beans from a specialty roaster in Melbourne. It tastes like medicine, smoke and chocolate. As he eats, he watches reads the news: Olympic rivalries, grandma basher, reclaimed vulvas, ghost homes, Biden quits, emu farms, best comedy scenes in the UK, nuclear hope. Scrolls Instagram: Whale breeches, boomerang, baby shower. Checks emails: Survey Closes Tomorrow, Your Express Trip From Saturday Evening, New Comment on Airtable. He flips over his phone and loads plate and cup into dishwasher, fits a tablet of detergent in its slot and presses the button. He drifts to his desk.
His laptop waits dependably in the centre of his desk. He opens it, taps the power button and waits for it to boot. The screen flickers to life. First, he checks emails, prioritises, flags, and responds. The clock strikes 8am, and the hardworking man joins his first virtual meeting. Faces appear on the screen, colleagues framed by their home offices. He nods, listens, contributes when required. The conversation flows around him like water around a rock. The rooster crows again, distant and indistinct. He glances out the window but only sees the same unchanging sky.
After the meeting, he tackles his tasks one by one. Spreadsheets, reports, project updates. He checks off each task with measured satisfaction and rolls his head back, feeling the hardness of his collar massage his neck. He knows he need not wear a collared shirt from his home desk, but the ritual provides a comforting authority that disciplines his torso to sit up straight.
The hardworking man rewards his discipline with lunch - a brief interlude of turkey sandwiches and The Office. He drifts to the kitchen, and onto his sofa, where he sinks into the plush grey leather. For a moment he’s tempted to unbutton his collar, which now digs into his chin as he slumps and feels the chewed bread squeeze between his oesophagus and the rigid band. Sandwich in right hand, he adjusts himself, eyed darting between television and phone, which he scrolls with his left thumb. He takes in neither, but chuckles with the laugh track.
The afternoon vanishes. The hardworking man moves through his day with calm focus, and suddenly it is time to close his screen. He powers down his laptop; first the blackness, then the fading whirr of the fan, finally a low hum evaporates. Outside the white-blue sky is tinged with mandarin, still cloudless, the leaves still clinging to their branches. The hardworking man unbuttons his collar, a rooster crows, he latches the window shut.
In his room he will undress, wash, brush his hair, slide on slippers. He will not cook tonight. He will select a meal on his phone, dial in his address and wait. When the doorbell rings, he will retrieve the food from his doorstep, take plate, fork, knife, napkins to his grey sofa, sink into the leather. He will watch television, eat with his left hand, scroll with his right. He will laugh with the soundtrack. He will package leftovers into neat plastic containers, unload dishwasher, wash plate, fork, knife. He will say goodnight to his houseplants. Drift to his room.
At the washbasin the hardworking man will greet his toothbrush at attention in its charging port. Sliding off his slippers, the hardworking man will realise he doesn’t remember the last time he wore his outdoor shoes. He will close the blinds. He will sleep.
The alarm will sound.
Caravaggio, Conversion on the Way to Damascus, 1601