It had been 6 hours 23 minutes and roughly 14 seconds--15 seconds-16 seconds--since the laundry had been rescued from the dryer. The batch had gone cold. It was colorless. Whites dried at a low temperature and left to cool further. Michael, being neglectful, felt bad for the wrinkled v-necks and collared shirts. The underwear he had no sympathy for. They did not need to be presentable. He had no one to present them to. Not right now. The idea of pressed underwear was amusing. He began to sort, he in the chair, underwear and socks piled on the ironing board. Shirts (collared, long sleeved and all else) draped over the back of the chair waiting to be hung lightly.
Beside him sat a styrofoam container containing scrapes of refried beans, fragments of Mexican rice and two shreds of lettuce. The Taco/Burrito Palace. Michael had been seven nights in a row to the small food joint. Six of them alone. One with the father of a friend. The place reeked of foreign joy constantly. The light was always a warm, open and noticeably yellow. There was never any obnoxious music, not the cliché mariachi that often seemed to make fun of Mexican music rather than be it. No, it was always the rising and falling inflections of sports commentator excitement from the television. And when the right thing was ordered the best sound was ssizzzzzle of the grill.
Going there was Michael’s way of visiting a different country; his way of leaving. He sat among two Mexican policeman and the passing of white drunk people looking for booze food. But the only people that stayed for longer than 15 minutes were Michael and the two men in uniform. They watched soccer games together. Michael never thought much of soccer, but viewing its fast and enduring pace in this place made him excited. He made eye contact with the other two whenever there was a near miss at the goal or when the smack of two running bodies sounded. He could be a soccer player. He was always athletic. It was strange; he was not a work out junkie, just genetically blessed he guessed. Michael could always keep up with others, maybe even be faster, not stronger, but definitely just as quick. He could do it. This was the kind of thought Michael often had. He could forsake the years of schooling and job training and simply go into another field. Age was no issue. It would be a matter of money and finding a specialist to train him. Things like this didn’t seem easy, but he thought he could do them. Really do them. Be good at them. He could learn to juggle the soccer ball. He learned to correct his two left feet and danced the salsa in a Christmas Eve service at church once. Or maybe basketball. It would take time, but if every day were spent in the gym, specifying mechanics and sharpening instincts then there would be a chance to make a career out of it.
Ssi zzzzzle. Scoop. Ssizzzzzle.
The television flashed shots of screaming fans. These people were nuts. A baby dressed in a demon costume. How does that happen? Pan out to the mother wearing a devil mask and dressed in shadowy dark robes. Oh. Never mind. The players moved with electric grace and spun the white ball with ease. He wondered how the ball curved like that when they kicked it? He could do that. He could bend it like Beckham. It would take some time, but he could do it. Maybe it wasn’t being a soccer player but rather, emulating one. He could do that well. He emulated writers in high school. Wrote poetry like E. E. Cummings. This one time he emulated Gene Kelly in some play he performed in college. He could emulate confidence when he needed it, patience when the situation called for a cool head. He spent half his damn life emulating his older brother. He emulated the perfect boyfriend role for six years of his relational life, pleasing the others and never actually able to be himse-
Ssizzzzzle. Scoop. Ssizzzzzle. Scoop.
The place was always friendly. It was more of a heaven than a palace. They should rename the place. It was a safe ground for all those wanting to escape. You could come here to get away from bustling streets or bickering mates, gargantuan assholes hitting on you at bars. You could run towards well flavored chicken and authentic flour tortillas. Michael was escaping. This sharpened him, sprung everything good in him, relaxed him. Michael sat for an hour each night among Spanish television shouts and sideways glances. That’s all he did. He didn’t have to think about her--or about his feelings. He especially didn’t think about where he was going in the future or what job he needed or what apartment he was supposed to move into next. And this was his problem. So many-
Ssizzzzzle. Scoop. “Dos Quesadillas, amigo”
Not for Michael. He was a taco kind of guy if that makes any sense. Tonight’s game was Mexico versus Hungary. Are you serious? Hungary? This is a tad ridiculous. Is there really no small way to escape this, God? He didn't want to watch this game. Tonight’s order would be to go. The selection was met with a crooked eyebrow from the register Mexican twin. The cook Mexican twin mirrored his registered brother when he stuffed the order into a large paper bag with the accompaniment of Michael's two favorite salsas.
"Hasta manana, cabron," the register twin hollered at Michael as he left. He knew he was not really anyone's cabron.
Michael passed seven bars on his three block walk to the palace. The way back was always worse. There was something about colorful lights inside tinted windows and globs of gyrating bodies that promised Michael something he half wanted. He didn’t look down on or despise that life-style. He wanted to partake in the ritual of it all. The shirts and the flirting and the drinks. It just didn’t seem like one hundred percent him. He felt that was a life style that took real commitment. A dedication he was not willing to put forth. Not towards that anyway. Some of it looked really fun. Michael often wanted to be inside the bar, talking to new people and smelling sweet liquors. His mind was constantly on other things. Well, really it was one thing that lead to many things that caused reflection on a lot of other things. All these things. Subjects. He often referred to them as problems. A term that most of his friends told him to ignore. It was their way of keeping him from himself. The walk back consisted of drive-by flirting with girls in his head. Tonight a girl who took an extra long drag on her cigarette was the subject.
-Hi, girl standing outside of club that I would never really go for, but still wouldn’t mind talking to.
-Hey, boy strolling by club that wants me but would never have a chance because we just don’t really match.
-I know someone prettier than you.
-Ouch. Why would you say that?
-it’s not your fault. She’s all I can think about.
-Tell me you won’t think about me later tonight.
-I won’t think about you tonight.
-Have a good night, boy.
-You too, girl. Sorry it couldn’t work out.
-I know you have something better than me.
Tonight he abandoned the laundry and was now going back to it.
Socks. They never evoked any memory. Not really. This is how he treated laundry, like a big sack of memories that he could reach into, pull out something warm, not visited often and could be accessed for entertainment. Each handful brought out a story or a person. He began this game when he folded clothes for his mother. He made chores exciting that way. Sweeping became hockey and mowing the lawn was like painting with light and dark shades of green. Laundry was about memory and story. Socks, however, were tug-of-war fights with his childhood dog and not much more. Maybe winter. Double socks in the winter. But this was something to do. Folding, smoothing, cleaning up his life in small ways. Pairing socks was like figuring out his problems. A search for the match required work and thought. And always the answer. The beauty of chores, the solving of problems. So Michael folded. Grabbing each item, finding a memory and folding it up in his mind. The white collared shirt with a gray windowpane pattern. This was a dancing shirt! A wedding, a hardwood floor and 200 other bodies packed together, celebrating the love of two people. Strangers to most except themselves. This one had to be folded with pizzazz. So flare it would be. Michael grabbed each sleeve at the end, draped it against his body, held it close in the best slow dance position. Faces pressed closely at the cheek, hands cupping each other that feels like spooning for palms and tummies securely fastened to each other; everything resembling intimacy. And he swung that shirt in one complete circle with show and flash. The circumstance was the dance. It was about the closeness and the feel of 70 percent cotton, 30 percent silk blend. The umbrella whoosh of the unbodied cloth. And then the dip, oh the dip. What a dip! The neck line and collar simply falling open, succumbing to the music and mood and irresistible partner. Thank you for this dance, good sir. Whoosh, whoosh, slip, slip. The shirt and memory and wood floor now folded and fluffed ontop of the pile of others. Daydreams and basketball games, car rides, late night dinners and Christmases all crisply compartmentalized into squares and buttons facing up.
Blue sock. Two black socks. A match.
A white shirt with a vintage MTV logo on it. Hand-me-down. Fake big brother. Guitar lessons. Quitting guitar lessons. Love for fake big brother. Love for real brother and fake big brother being together.
Other blue sock. Whoosh. Match.
Oh my. Tie-dye shirt. Whoosh. Flip. Flip. He’ll ask for no memories from that one. Just a weird night of outdoor grilled food, bad movies and a strange attempt to fit in.
Get back here. Last black sock. Final Match.--
--And the sweater. A dark grey cardigan sweater. He wore it all the time. Over t-shirts, v-necks, collared shirts if he wanted to dress it up more. It was a comfort article. Bought with hesitance, but now kept forever on his shoulders. It was his, but he wanted to give it to her. It was one of those ridiculous couple things that he actually did buy into. He felt more like a man if she wore his shirt. He would never want to lay claim to her, he just wanted to be with-
Whoosh. Flip. Pause.
Too many things. Too many. He gave it his all, but he couldn’t shake the thought of her. It was hopeless. He knew he was hopeless. He held it half folded hoping he would only half think of his feelings for her. He hated how he thought of her. The first ceiling-glances of his morning were filled with her. A stroll downtown was with her, she’d pop in while washing a dish and eating a peanut butter and jelly stood no chance. She was in Hungary and he was just left hungry. There she was. The most beautiful monster curling up the back of his neck, stroking his mind and holding his chest. Did she know this? No. Should she? Probably not. This was not her fault. It was all his things. All his moments. Damn, this sweater. Damn this goddamn, fucking sweater. It was caught in his throat. He wanted to curse his damn throat. For seven months his throat had stopped everything from fully entering him. Or coming out. He couldn’t smell the commercial, homey smell of laundry because of his throat. He couldn’t discover things, couldn’t find the answer to his past, couldn’t cry about his own life because of that throat. There was something in the way. A block. A giant roll of socks holding up his throat, refusing to let him go. And now this sweater was weaving itself into his skin. He wouldn’t be able to shake it. The cotton could overtake his flesh and loop itself around his stomach. He wanted her to ask for it. He wanted her to say I love that sweater and the way it looks on you and I bet it would be too big for me but I would love to know that I own something of yours and I would love to look cute in that and see the look on your face when I put it on. I want that. He wanted her to say something like that. He wanted that because of all these other things caught in his throat. He wished he could throw it all up; rip out his tongue and anything that ever lied. Stupid laundry and all its stupidness and its ability to make him feel stupid things. Just come out. Please. He wanted to get rid of every moment he felt not good enough or wrong. He wanted to finally prove it. Find the one, biggest thing going on in his life, solve it and prove to the rest of the world that he was allowed to be there. He was allowed to live and exist and influence and love and drink coffee and teach and talk to others. He wanted to shred his own heart and throw it deep into the darkness. Anything that stirred down there could eat it and he would never have to see those problems. How can you love and hate yourself? He could build himself a new heart because all these things were too much for him. They were too much. He could say farewell to the overburdened, trying too hard heart that clung to a sweater and the wonderful her. He never wanted to get rid of her, just the things that surrounded her and polluted her. The things she didn’t know about. Probably shouldn’t know about. The things in his life that made him completely and utterly him. To be these things and be wanted seemed like too much. For anything.
Whoosh. Flip. Whoosh. Drip.
Damn. There it was. Part of the sleeve was a darker gray. Now two parts—three. Three splattery circles he hadn’t seen in a long time. A shiver rippled through him like walking outside at night without a shirt. It hit him right in the back of his stomach, where his spine was. Damn, that throat.
Whoosh. Flip. Folded.
It was on top of the stack and now it was staring.
So Michael stared back.
All the comfort he wanted lay beside him, fully eaten and watching soccer. And the things near him were folded. It was one night of many, again, left up too late and searching for too much. He felt so vague. He felt like the soft edges of all his cotton shirts. Rounded, barely defined, worn. They could only know their potential when dressed. Maybe he overreacted. He did that from time to time. He was getting better though. He sat staring in all his strangeness and vulnerability. The night passed three, the sweater still on top and he slept without putting away his things.
