accident, it’s always the damn mining accident! It becomes too much sometimes, and today was one of those days. Clifford couldn’t stand the looks they gave him; the room no longer filled with the scent of flowers but the stinking reek of pity. Once the door closes, the world is shut away, and he doesn’t have to hide his disfigurement for anyone. With barely enough room to squeeze by, he turns on his old radio to drown out the surrounding noises. His coffee is hours cold, and the haphazardly stacked profiles and letters yell at him, reminding him that he has work to do, but he ignores it. He focuses his attention on the present, listening to scores of a local team he cares nothing about. Minutes pass and Dick Donalee’s rugged voice charges the room, stirring his thoughts in a new direction, away from the prying eyes of lonely women with too much time on their hands. The glow emanating from the tubes in the back of the old wooden case is emphasized by the lack of light in the cramped space. “Just take me away,” Clifford sighs towards the radio, imagining himself sitting in the stands, pretending to enjoy the game, knowing fully well there was only one reason he would ever attend. Getting lost in the moment, as Dick transitions to local news, the station switches and is overpowered by coverage of the war. A light breeze carries itself across the room, slipping in through the small open window, shifting the curtain. “...Four brave Ameri-shhhh-ldiers were injured in-shhhh-ounter attack by German forces.” The shuffle of papers flutters through grime covered speaker. “Naturally, a delay...shhhhhhh” A hand cuts through the air and smacks the side of the old Philco riddled with constant abuse and quick fixes. Turning the makeshift nob in a last-ditch effort, a cork crumbling from use, the blue light fades, inviting eager shadows to fill the void. “Figures,” Clifford mumbles to himself, as he smooths his fiery locks back with his rough hands. He gives one last look in the radio’s direction, hoping Dick’s voice would grace his ears, but has no such luck. Grumbling, he attempts to realign his chair, but corrects too quickly. The linen cloth pinching underneath the wheel, exposes the small stack of books holding up the left side of the desk where nearly a third of the leg is missing. Elliot. Stein. Hemingway. They mock him, and he can’t stand it. He winces, pulling the fabric quickly across their exposed spines as if hiding them would make him forget a time when books were more than stabilizers. But, the cloth doesn’t drape nicely the way it should. Still holding Page 47
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