Mr. Johns, the predictable one

Archibald Johns was a good neighbor in his neighborhood of Queens, New York; where he was born and lived.



Slightly fat, slightly bald; everything in Johns was slight.



Slightly racist, but too timorous to manifest it openly, Mr. Johns used to lock well the door of his small cottage: there are dangerous people of dark skin stalking at night: key and key...and to close well the windows, too; Mr. Johns, Archibald.







Mr. Johns' clothes are the epitome of an anachronical nothing, settled somewhere in the past: slightly anachronical. Johns.




His job, in an office as employee. Correct employee, Johns, punctual.



He never would be fired...his boss feels an obscene contempt for him. Obscene and comprehensible.



Johns is the best expert in data and informatic systems of the office.

Actually he is the only one.



His performance in "Pludgeon & Son" -an invisible insurance company- it's always an impeccable journey into the routine.



One day, 25 years ago, Johns started working in this company, always the same desk, close to a window that shows the dirty and flat roofs of the zone; people dealing with illegal substances, lazy patrols...the streets.



But Johns, Archibald; he just arrived to the office one day, 25 years ago, and sat his butt on the heart of the opaque oblivion, forever.



It frightens his own shadow, it frightens.

























He lives alone in his small cottage: his mother died 15 years ago; his loneliness became heavy, dense; like a thick, stiff chicken broth.



Every month he goes to visit her tomb at the cemetery, Amen.

Johns, Archibald, cries; slightly.








Archibald Johns stretched his own decadence like a chewing gum: master in the boredom and the common place; Johns, the predictable one.









But he wasn't a drag, he just was the epitome of that slight, Anglo-Saxon lack of grace. Slightly, Johns, Archibald.




























ONE DAY NOBODY SAW HIM ANYMORE.



























One day after his birthday Nº 59, Johns didn't go to work. The indignation and surprise of his boss was colossal.



It was the first and last time that Johns surprised someone.


















Because he was found dead inside of his home, days after.



A rotting smell coming from the cottage -besides the complete absence of Johns-, made the neighbors realize: the police was called
the corpse of Mr. Johns was found seated in a chair, at his kitchen, stiff and surrounded by flies and cockroaches: 
the hot days of July operated a quick decomposition on the Archibald's body.



He was found correctly dressed, though.



A cold cup of tea almost empty was found on the table.

Goodbye, Archibald.