Pac

by Henderson Crane III F10

Pac Man's room was dark and cavernous. The only light came from outside streaming through the blinds. He had a pile of yellow uniforms, unwashed and stained, piled in the corner. He had a table in the other corner. Upon that table were a nearly empty whiskey bottle and an empty tumbler. His bed was but a mattress thrown on the bare floor, it had not been made, and the fitted sheet was off of one corner of the bed. The walls were bare and the wallpaper tattered. There was a clean yellow suit flung over a lay-z-boy chair the chair was facing an old tube TV which had been left on. It was playing an infomercial for oxy-clean. On top of the TV there was a pile of old magazines: Maxim, Spin, and The New Yorker. At the back of the room in a dark corner were four pictures of multicolored ghosts, a knife was stabbed through one of the pictures into the wall. Another one of the images was scratched out with sharpie. On the floor by his bedside there were two emptied cartons of delivered Chinese food a fork was left on one of them. From the residue one could tell what he had ordered: General Tso's chicken, white rice. There was an unopened pair of chopsticks. Scattered around the area were the crushed remnants of a fortune cookie. This was Pac Man's home; this was Pac Man's life.