Solomon’s internal alarm clock operates on an exact agenda every morning. At 6 am, the alarm blares in his bladder, propelling him out of bed and into the bathroom. This alarm is not sufficient enough to prevent him from stumbling back to sleep. The second alarm will chime at 8:10, plus or minus five or ten minutes. On work days, both his internal clock and his phone’s alarm will wake him but are largely ineffective, necessitating snooze reminders. On weekends, conversely, his body rebels against sleep, and if Solomon fights for more, he may be rewarded with a fitful hour half-nap.
This morning, he glares at the wall in front of him as he lays on his left side. He knows it is 8 o’something. He cradles a throw pillow in the crook of right arm while his left arm remains outstretched at an awkward angle, gathering numb needles. His bladder protests despite having been emptied a few hours before. Both shoulders now ache, as if Solomon had been wrestling with the mattress all night.
People are coming over today. More than he would like. More than he can control. And they are coming into his home. He rolls onto his stomach and smothers himself in his pillow. Both he and his home will have to pretend to be normal and functional for a while.
Solomon fervently believes no one lives in a clean, well-kept home. Each home maintains a level of squalor as equilibrium, creating an ecosystem suited to its inhabitants. Human beings inherently feel uncomfortable exposing their filthiness, so they have constructed the myth of the clean home, just as they pretend they never pick their noses, fart, or only rinse their hands for a few seconds after using the bathroom. Thus, Solomon carries his family’s tradition of madly cleaning the entire home in the hours before outsiders arrive.
The first step of cleaning is to designate chores, so as Solomon prepares to get out of bed, he forces his partner to do the same. He does so sweetly, offering loving touches and gentle encouragement. His affection is authentic, but he has multiple motives in mind. She is much more capable with chores and appears to enjoy completing them as a form of catharsis. Conversely, Solomon loathes work of any kind and fabricates convincing reasons why others would be better suited for the job.
Chores are bartered over the course of showering and dressing. He will gladly accept doing the dishes and cleaning the kitchen. He will offer to unload and load the laundry, hoping his partner will take the more difficult task of folding. He will try to relegate the vacuuming to her as well, but knowing she will resist, he will accept the task if she agrees to handle the bathroom, the most annoying chore. He will feel sick for manipulating his loyal partner, but he consoles himself by pretending others are just as manipulative as he. Ultimately, he exalts her for unfailingly cleaning the guinea pigs’ cage every week.
Having divvied up the chores, Solomon tends to his duties at a limping pace. He has always been quick to learn but never one to quickly execute. He monologues to himself or others as he works, exemplifying why corporations yearn for mindless workers and not his dawdling breed. Some may say he is taking his time, but he recognizes he is at the point where he has long used up his time and is now stealing time from others.
As he ambles through his mental to-do list, his neuroticism—his cleaning conscience—highlights the abhorrent chores, those that have yet to be crossed off since moving into his home. The guinea pigs have charted some disconcerting blotches in the living room’s carpet. The stains will likely require a carpet cleaner or a carpal-tunnel’s worth of hand-scrubbing to erase. The oven has amassed cultures of grease in conveniently obscure locations, and all of the burners now smoke due to some mixture of all of last nights’ meals. His home has become a sanctum for dust bunnies because Solomon believes dusting to be the epitome of meaninglessness in man’s existence.
Today, Solomon is fortunate. By implementing enough breaks, he has prolonged the chores, making it so he and his partner will finish just as the first guests filter in. This leaves no downtime to start a new activity only for it to be interrupted by the arrival of the others. He has no more time to justify doing any additional cleaning. He has no chance to review his plan for appearing like a sensible adult.
He has already prepared himself meticulously. His curated outfit is slovenly enough to be comfortable but not enough to raise concern. He has formulated a list of activities that can be amended based on the people present and their level of sobriety. He has reminded himself that hard alcohol will not make the situation any less difficult for him and only serve to create heartburn, hangovers, and bloody stool. In preparation for that final awkward hour before goodbyes, he has laid out his exit strategy which will utilize his most effective excuse: fatigue. He hopes he can offer a short farewell and disappear to his room, leaving his partner to continue the party and eventually provide a proper goodbye. He has already developed a reputation as an awkward short-distance runner among his partner’s friends, a designation that both offends him and fits.
He is tired. Acting is not second-nature despite his gregarious façade. He dislikes the flawed character he has written for social occasions, but he is too exhausted to make revisions in the moment, too anxious to hash out a new character at a later time. He has three goals to push himself through the discomfort:
- Make your partner happy.
- Don’t look like you’re in pain.
- Make people laugh enough to ignore the fact that most of your contributions are shallow jokes.
Someone knocks at the front door, startling Solomon from his task of rubbing small stains on the kitchen counter with his finger. He looks and smiles at his partner as he heads in the opposite direction of the door, pretending to go grab something from the bedroom. He waits in the dark until the first shoe hits the linoleum, and then he makes his entrance, beaming and outstretching arms. His breath hisses as he exhales through his tight smile, beginning his slow deflation toward a limp sack of flesh by the end of the night.