He Sat In The Corner Of The Room

He sat in the corner of the room, behind the door, in a maroon chair with wooden arms. Periodically he sank into the chair, his legs splayed and his ass scraping off the seat, and then clawed his way back up, using his hands to push off the arms of the chair. Periodically his head twitched as he involuntarily counted the tiles in the floor, almost disturbing his glasses. Occasionally someone would enter the room and sit down, until every empty chair, even the one next to him, was occupied. There was even a man perched on the table. The other people talked, exchanging complaints about the management of the institution and jokes about each other’s habits. He listened attentively, twitching under the bursts of laughter that billowed across the room, his lips smiling foolishly. When a question was addressed to the whole company he answered in his quiet, but he felt, confident voice. Although he was sure his reply was correct his comment was glossed over. A few seconds later a large, tattooed man sitting opposite and to the left of him made the same reply and was greeted with nods and congratulations. This happened often enough for him to realise his own impotence. Despite concentrating as hard as he could, he soon lost his grip on the course of the conversation and reduced himself to the feeble nodding of a puppet when he felt it might be appropriate. The radio on the window shelf behind his head was tuned to a local station. When the news was over and the Top 40 began to be played, the tattooed man reached over him and twisted the volume knob around and today’s hits began to play loudly. The man on the table produced an expensive looking acoustic guitar. He began to play along, clumsily and jarringly, and the crowd began to clap in time and sing stridently until the countdown reached the current number one at which most of the gathering stood and waved their arms, some of their legs as well, to the cheap metronome beat of the smash hit. The guitarist was reduced to drumming on the sound box of his guitar. Impelled to follow their energy they spilled out of the room, banging the door open as they danced after each other, and banging it into his bowed forehead. The guitarist was the last to go. Alone, he began to sing along to the radio but his clumsy singing voice soon convinced him he wasn’t up to this either. He pulled the cord from the socket to the radio out of the wall, twisted it around his arm and pushed the 3 pronged plug into his plump ineffectual palm until it hurt, which made him give up. The light switch was too far above him and anyway it was on the other side of the door. He began to declaim his lessons to himself, but not being sure what his voice really sounded like to those he was convinced were listening, he stopped. The light shone blandly down on the chairs, the tables, the full ashtrays and mugs that had been left behind. He wasn’t comfortable, twisting and stretching his long legs and arching his hunched back as much as possible, and after a while he slumped asleep in the chair, his twitching limbs disturbed the empty room. But not for a long time.

Jo Twist © 2003