Anatomy of a Mess [Allen]

Coffee dripped slowly in droplets, gathering at the edge of the table and plink-plinking silently to the floor, spreading a dark, rich, and bitter stain across the corporate carpet. Its trail followed backward in a thin stream to an overturned mug from which it had spilled, knocked aside by a motionless elbow. Smoked wafted upward in tendrils, like the delicate curves of some ancient tea, from one of the cigarette stubs freshly planted in the soft ashes of a cheap plastic tray. Papers were strewn across the tabletop: designs for drilling machines, flying machines, refining machines, grants and bills and official documents that seemed dangerously close to slipping off into the wastebasket next to the desk, overflowing with their discarded brethren and fast food wrappers. The grease seemed to shimmer in the lamplight.

Most notable on the desk, the overseer and owner of all its contents and messes, was a young genius, hunched over and asleep in the nest of papers. One of the many alarms on his phone--this one in charge of telling him that it was time to teach astrophysics--hummed quietly, as it had been humming quietly for the past two hours or so, on top of a folder. It had been turned to silent during a meeting earlier that day, and its owner had evidently neglected to switch it back. His shirt seemed to inflate and deflate ever so slightly on his shoulders as he breathed softly, glasses askew on the edge of his nose, head resting in the crook of one of his elbows.

It was no accident that he'd fallen asleep in such a manner; this was his regular schedule--sans forgetting to turn up the volume on his alarm. Morning shifts at the hospital, starting a five o'clock sharp every day, afternoons at the Company, where he worked from twelve to eight, long past the time that most employees had already finished their eight-hours-a-day. One hour to sleep until nine, at which time he dashed to catch the metro for his night classes: one from nine-thirty to eleven, another from eleven to twelve-forty-five. Then he went home and slept until four, woke up, graded papers, and ran to catch the metro to the hospital. Sundays, he spent in the research laboratory or the observatory on the outskirts of town. His vacations were the days when he was unable to leave his house due to the forecast. It all left just enough time for no fun or social life to speak of, which suited him just fine; communication and recreation were never his majors.

Despite being a young prodigy in his prime, though, the demanding lifestyle seemed to be slowly catching up with him--besides that he'd started smoking and eating poorly again, his hair, even, seemed to be perpetually disheveled on the side he rested his head on. In addition, to the misfortune of his students and coworkers, he seemed to be getting testier and more lacking in a sense of humor by the day. He didn't have time to brush his hair or look presentable. He didn't have time to worry about hurting someone's feelings in the workplace when efficiency was top-priority. He didn't have time to baby students who struggled with schoolwork that he found easy. He didn't have time to play the social game.

He didn't have time for the people he constantly devoted his life to helping.

Cleaning up after people was an easy way to see what people were all about.  It just wasn't very pleasant-- but easier than being fluent in a difficult language that many people seemed to find difficult, also.  Not that she didn't like people, no, she tried to find out all she could about them.  Which sometimes-- no, always-- meant going through their desk drawers to see what they were all about.  

One woman had a drawer full of diet pills, thin cigarettes, and makeup.  She'd stopped digging in one office when she'd found a leg in a tall drawer.  It wasn't real, but that was partly what made it frightening (originally that had been her favorite place to look-- there were medals and trophies everywhere that would probably be worth something if she wasn't afraid to steal).  One office was bigger than some of the rest but looked small with all the pictures on the walls-- mostly of one woman but also small children that looked like that woman.  Another office was smaller and was nearly bare, but smelled so much like smoke she only cleaned it intermittently.  She could somehow, however, stand to stay in there long enough to listen to all the messages that had built up seemingly unanswered on the machine.  She wondered if he knew she had.  Oh well, she hadn't been fired yet.  

In particular she liked all the designs in the office she was heading to.  They fascinated her-- and it was good that it was already enough of a mess so she didn't think it's daytime inhabitant would mind if she put them back in a different place.  

Seeing a bit into the doorway before she got there on the industrial vacuum she rode on between rooms, she saw a dark puddle of coffee... Which was still dripping. Sure, cleaning was her job, but it was still maddening when people didn't clean up after themselves.  Getting off the vacuum, decidedly angry but with cleaning solution in hand, she stopped in her tracks when she saw the sleeping man there.  

She was no stranger to people trying to sleep in the building, but usually they were grunts in marketing and either were fond of taking naps or did not have a place to go for the night.  Or both.  

"Hey--" she called grudgingly, before realizing that she didn't wear her scarf when she thought no one was in the building.  Running back to her cart of cleaning supplies, she threw her scarf around her neck, ran it around a few times until it was taught, and tied it.  It didn't make much of a difference, but at least it hid the brass.  

Marching back to his office, she declared with new confidence, "Mister! You cannot sleep in here!" Hopefully he wouldn't have a sob story or anything.  "Go home!" 

"Mister! You cannot sleep in here!"

Jolted awake, Allen practically sprang upwards, snatching for his phone before he even had a chance to shake off the disorientation. Without his glasses (which he scrabbled for with his other hand), he had to hold the screen a few inches from his face. But no matter how much he squinted, the time didn't change.

Cursing under his breath, he leapt to his feet (knocking some papers off of the desk, in the process, giving him more cause to mutter angrily) and pulled open his email application, revealing a flood of mail from confused students, wondering where he was. It was unlikely that they had waited up until this point for him to finally show up. Exhaling raggedly and running a hand through his hair, he made a mental note to send an apologetic mass-email out once he got home. And now that there was no point in going to teach, he had nowhere to go but home.

Disgruntled, he pushed his glasses onto the bridge of his nose and was about to pick up the spilled papers, when he noticed the coffee first. "Oh jeez," he quickly turned the cup upright, as if it made a difference. In the process, more papers were knocked from his overflowing desk. 

"I--ugh," he pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, breathing deeply, "Sorry. Sorry, I'll get that." He meant the coffee, but he got to his knees first to collect the papers, all the while never really noticing the long-necked cleaning lady.

At first it seemed she was so irate, she walked out of the room.  Frustrated though she was, it was only to get supplies to clean up the coffee.  

Walking back in, she dropped to her knees and shook up the spray can of stain remover (when she first was given the job, she knew nothing about cleaning except that it involved a solution and elbow grease, and had cleaned an entire floor with a few cans of it), muttering frustratedly, "My job, not yours." before spraying the dark splotch on the floor.  Even though he seemed more interested in his papers.  

She realized if he picked them all up and made them neat, she wouldn't get to see them.  "Go home." She asserted, more softly this time.  "I'll clean that, too." 

A part of her wanted him to leave simply because she'd been pitied before for being foreign and paid poorly, even though compared to where she had come from her wages were practically riches.  She seemed to look so bizarre that people mistook her poor English and jewelry for her having a barbaric brain.  No doubt a man who seemed like a genius would think the same or more.  

"Please go home..." She mumbled into the rapidly fizzling cleaning solution as she bored down on it with a cloth.  "You look like you need to..."