Given: a name and object
|Fred Mounce resembles an unmade bed. He is the type of man you might find rushing in with the tails of his dress shirt wrinkled and bulging out of his trousers to speak at an important meeting. He smells like coffee and sweat. He does not believe in folding clothes-if it can’t be draped over a hanger it can be tossed in a drawer. One might come to the conclusion that crumbs are his confidants for he may always be found with them. Thoughts of the future have little effect on Fred; he plans little and sleeps a lot.|
Fred lives in his mother’s basement. His unmade bed is safe there. Mother brings him breakfast in bed on the weekend, his favorite part of the week. He spends his Saturdays wrapped in the cocoon of musty sheets, morphing into whatever character on cartoon network peaks his interest while he sips his coffee and looks at the funnies. On Sunday he barely opens his eyes save enough to stagger to the bathroom leaving a trail of fallen pillows and lazy sheet half on and half off of the floor or bed-depending on the angle.
During the week after Fred rushes out for work his mother creaks down the stairs to make his bed. She sprays the mattress with Lysol, dusts the crumbs from the sheets if she does not replace them with fresh sheets, fluffs the pillows, tucks the corners of the sheets and folds back the comforter. When Fred was little she used to groom him like a doll-she misses that. Now all she can do is fix his unmade bed.