Workday

Pontus wakes up in the morning to the annoying beeping of his alarm. With a groan, he identifies himself on the touch screen. It goes silent. A silent morning, except for the faint hum of the ventilation system, the thuds of passersby in the corridor outside, and the neighbors next door having a loud argument as usual. He drags himself to the kitchenette and fumbles for a capsule of invigorating drink in the warmer, which soon serves up a hot and bitter beverage.

"Another golden day in the Royal Republic," he thinks bitterly as he gazes out through the narrow window gap at the overcast weather outside.

In the square below, vendors were getting ready for the day, unfurling tarps and setting up tables. Although the square was a triangle, the vendors' stalls formed concentric rings around the square's large center sculpture.

Three giant clasped hands in red granite.

Actually, in his opinion, they looked more pink, even though they were cut from one of the world's hardest rocks, the genuine Bohus granite from the primeval bedrock. Freshly washed as they were, they resembled the giants, he thought for a while about a nice word, mushrooms. Mushrooms, newly pushed out of the ground, not yet soiled by all the pigeons in the square.

Out of habit, he opens the refrigerator door, but all that's inside is a musty smell and two dirty shelves he's already decided to clean, another day. All these days, so similar, so many opportunities to tidy up, might as well wait. Instead, he retrieves one of the biscuit-like squares from the state-issued emergency rations. The taste is slightly greasy and starting to turn rancid. Technically, each square should be boiled with a liter of water, but right now, he doesn't feel like it's so important. Why not let it swell into a porridge in his stomach instead, what could possibly be the difference?

After splashing some lukewarm water on his face, he immediately feels twice as fresh. He wipes away the grit and stickiness on his undershirt before putting it on. He finds his glasses, which he apparently slept on. Grateful that they are the military-issue glasses, ugly but sturdy, designed to be used with a gas mask. He longingly thinks about the stylish light blue glasses he once had, back when he was briefly rich, or at least not as poor.

He puts on his work uniform and the rugged work boots, thinking about how lucky he is that the emergency job provides clothing. Clothes were getting scarce, at least clothes without holes. Of course, there are free clothes at the soup kitchen he goes to twice a week when it's open. Partly to get some free food, but also for some company, to chat with the old ladies and gentlemen, hear their stories from the past, from a time when civilization was a bit freer, more peaceful, and larger. The Inter-Crisis period, as it's called now, of course, nobody knew back then that it was between crises; at that time, everyone thought it was normal times. He smiles inwardly at their naivety. In any case, he enjoys going there to eat and talk, but accepting their old clothes from now-dead people would clearly label him as a victim. It would show everyone that here's a man who hasn't succeeded so much that he has to wear dead people's clothes to keep from freezing.

In the corridor, he checks when his next laundry day is, and, of course, he's been assigned a time when he won't be home. Otherwise, he would have looked forward to taking a proper shower and handing in 5 kg of clothes for washing. He fumbles his way through the emergency-lit hall to the elevator and to the left, where the stairs down to the ground floor are. This time of year, there's a shortage of electricity, and everyone has to pitch in to save, especially when it's overcast and windless, causing a drop in the electricity reserves. Outside on the street, it's wet, as it rained heavily overnight, and the water is still receding.

On his way to the collection point, he passes a bakery and catches the wonderful scent of freshly baked bread and cinnamon rolls.

In his imagination, he's in there, enjoying the warmth. Sipping from delicate porcelain, tea from China in a silver teapot, nibbling neatly on a small delicacy. In his fantasy, he fits right in; it's obvious. He greets the friendly waitresses, and they ask him, "The usual?" He happily replies, "Yes, but I'll also have a graham cracker with some (expensive) cheese on the side." He's interrupted in his daydream when he steps into a pothole in the road, causing the water, which was shallow enough not to seep into his boots before, to have a chance to trickle in. His sock gets wet, and he feels a bit sad knowing that it'll be like that all day.