Jack
My father sends me a care package every week. He says that they are just because he loves me but I think they are his futile attempts at making up for those last few years of high school. The point is that a few weeks ago I received a package with $20 in quarters and a note that read, “Happy laundering!” Of course, he meant in reference to laundry. I think.
Anyways! I was very pleased with this gesture as the last time that I made an attempt at laundry I hardly had enough money for one load and my makeshift clothesline made of a crutch and a hutch was not at all successful. I had propped the crutch upon the doors of the hutch and it had the tendency to crash land every time somebody walked into my room. I eventually caught a cold from walking the city in damp clothing. Anyways!
Last week, armed with an outstandingly hefty roll of quarters, one to make the crotch of my pants look very well endowed, I set off on my laundry excursion. I should make one more aside at this point to note that I am probably the worst “launderer” there ever was. Aside from the fact that I just don’t like to do it (and probably never would if I didn’t have friends who had the tendency to make love nests in my dirty laundry but I don’t really want to talk about that either), I also just don’t understand the technique. Or really even the idea that there is a technique to something so menial. Reds from colors and colors from whites and then darks? And why does something always turn pink, even if I have a separate pile for reds? That’s bullshit. The most recent dispute between my laundry and I was with the soap. I bought powdered soap that apparently decided it didn’t want to dissolve so all of my pants came out looking like they’d just pulled an all- nighter at Studio 54. And my biggest complaint was that I wasn’t invited. ANYWAYS!
With my rolled quarter boner, my stubborn disco queen cocaine detergent, and my first load of reds (which I would absolutely be setting on cold-cold) I headed for the basement. There are a few reasons why I think that nobody in my building does laundry and here they are:
Reason 1 — My apartment, consisting of myself and 4 twenty-something year old men, makes up one fourth of the building. Enough said.
Reason 2- The apartment above us is vacant.
Reason 3- There’s a load of half done laundry that’s been sitting down there for god knows how long. Which is a problem because there is this really nice button down I’ve had my eye on. I’ve been eyeing it for so long that I’ve begun to think that the pile is only there as a ploy to catch me in an act of thievery. And one more itty-bitty little reason…
Reason 4- The fact that there is a dead man hanging in the laundry room.
Inevitably this would come as a shock to anybody, I understand. I should explain that the day I found him I happened to be pretty high on some very legally prescribed vicodin and been binge watching David Lynch movies all day. This fairly unsettling state made for an interesting first acquaintance with Jack (named of course for my favorite role of Leonardo Dicaprio’s in Titanic):
I can’t remember why I had stumbled down to the laundry room but I recall that it took a while to get there. When I finally reached the entrance halfway down the hall, I shoved past a pair of very nice looking dress shoes dangling whist thinking, how fucking inconsiderate of someone to hang a man right in my way and simultaneously wondering how he was staying on the hanger. I must have sat down there for hours during our first meeting. I just sat on somebody’s tacky abandoned kitchen chair next to Jack’s feet. I started telling him about this weird dream I had after I fell asleep to Inland Empire and asked him if he’d ever had one of those dreams where your legs don’t work and you start to walk into the cement. I really hate those because I get frustrated at how helpless I feel. Then I laughed because he told me he knew what I meant. “Sorry Jack, I didn’t mean to be rude.” After this things got silent for a bit. I really hadn’t meant to be rude. I guess my post-mortem etiquette isn’t quite up to par yet. The only other bit of left over furniture in the laundry room is a large screen television from the nineties. It took awhile, but I managed to turn it around and place it in front of us. I think he appreciated it.
And I appreciate Jack. He isn’t very young, but he isn’t very old either. He is always dressed really well in a three-piece suit, and my favorite part is the gold pocket watch he has sticking out of his vest pocket. He showed me the words that his grandmother had inscribed inside when she gave it to his grandfather, “The world will always welcome lovers, as time goes by.” I told Jack how much I loved Casablanca and was thankful that that song was used in that movie so that I could always relate it to Bogie instead of some dumb boy. I wondered if that inscription had anything to do with Jack hanging from the rafters in my laundry room, but I was always afraid to ask. I did ask Jack other things like, “when exactly do boys start to look like men?”
In retrospect I suppose I should have reported Jack to somebody. But who? I moved in after my old roommate kicked me out a few months ago and I’m not even sure I am supposed to live here so I can’t call the landlord. I felt like we were kindred in this sense. I didn’t want to call 911 because I’ve already told them their refrigerator was running one too many times, plus Jack was already dead so what could they really do? I needed to be more for Jack. I even tried to take him down once but I didn’t feel like dancing and he didn’t like to be touched. Sometimes I’d be out and remember suddenly that I needed to say goodnight to Jack. His cell was always dead. I played Jack all of the songs that meant anything to me.
A few weeks ago, on the particular day when I brought my reds down stairs to be washed on cold-cold, I noticed that Jack had visitors. “Oh yeah Jack, I forgot to tell you, we have some mice now. I think my roommates forgot to take out the trash or something. Sorry.” He didn’t answer. Whatever, he probably forgot to take out his trash all the time. The mice really liked him though. It was cute.
To better dissolve the stubborn detergent I put in some first and then ran the water. After loading my laundry, I added more detergent on accident. As usual I sat next to Jack on somebody’s tacky abandoned kitchen chair. He told me that his ancestors were gypsies and that made me feel like dressing up. Instead I went upstairs to put some tea on. While waiting for the tea I stood in front of my mirror for a while and wondered if Jack thought I was pretty. He probably likes girls with full lips and deeper eyelids. He probably likes girls who brush their hair and cut their cuticles. My arms are probably too hairy for Jack. Whatever, he likes The Smiths. I thought to myself.
When I got back to the basement with our tea I suddenly found it very hard for me to walk along the cement. Quickly realizing that the basement was covered in a foot of water and suds, I dropped to the floor deciding it’d be quicker to swim to Jack. A foot of water isn’t much to swim in but I got there eventually. “Jack we’re sinking!” I yelled to him. Suddenly I heard more splashing and a woman came bounding downstairs aggressively. So there I was, standing in front of my neighbor, waist deep in cocaine water complemented by little synchronized swimming mice friends, red laundry (and one pink sock), holding two cups of tea with a dead man hanging beside me from the rafters. Worst of all, I still had a very large roll of quarters in my pocket.
“Oh hey, is this your button down?” I asked holding up the abandoned shirt.