So, he is staring at the tiny Asian woman, mesmerised by her ability to draw the perfect circle. He didn’t know a thing about her. Had, somehow, forgotten to read her case notes. Until quite recently, he thought Petra was blind.
“Why are circles so hard to get right?” Joyce Cheadle was addressing him directly.
“I… dunno, Joyce” he absently replied.
“Petra’s are perfect.” Joyce continued, “Look, Johnny Ray. Perfect.”
Johnny Ray – people called him – was in a place where old stuff ended up; a storeroom in the basement, full of broken chairs, bits of tables, cracked consoles, plastic items, and shit gotten old and forgotten. And he no longer told people, like friends, or acquaintances, faces, eyes and breasts over drinks (if he was lucky!) while otherwise socialising, no longer did he say to people that it was a privilege to work in the public sector with (or, sometimes adding “looking after”), the under-privileged, the vulnerable, damaged. Coz it was never true. And it was no privilege.
A job, that was all Johnny Ray did.
A resident had died. He had been asked to look after a small bunch of problem clients. He’d cleared out the storeroom. Set up a trestle table. Laid on sheets of paper, crayons, pencils, felt tip pens.
“What are we doin’, Johnny Ray?” Came a chorus-line type cry.
Circles…. Circles… and more Circles.
To keep the restless natives occupied.
“Why are circles so hard to get right?” Joyce Cheadle was addressing him directly.
“I… dunno, Joyce” he absently replied.
“Petra’s are perfect.” Joyce continued, “Look, Johnny Ray. Perfect.”
Johnny Ray – people called him – was in a place where old stuff ended up; a storeroom in the basement, full of broken chairs, bits of tables, cracked consoles, plastic items, and shit gotten old and forgotten. And he no longer told people, like friends, or acquaintances, faces, eyes and breasts over drinks (if he was lucky!) while otherwise socialising, no longer did he say to people that it was a privilege to work in the public sector with (or, sometimes adding “looking after”), the under-privileged, the vulnerable, damaged. Coz it was never true. And it was no privilege.
A job, that was all Johnny Ray did.
A resident had died. He had been asked to look after a small bunch of problem clients. He’d cleared out the storeroom. Set up a trestle table. Laid on sheets of paper, crayons, pencils, felt tip pens.
“What are we doin’, Johnny Ray?” Came a chorus-line type cry.
Circles…. Circles… and more Circles.
To keep the restless natives occupied.
