Light and Shade
by Casey Flynn

Chapter 4

The electronic beeping - the 'eeeeee eeeeeee eeeeee' steadily lifted me out of the sleep cycle until it sounded more like a 'waaaa waaaa waaaa,' and I momentarily awoke from my comatose state. As the still present alcohol buzz dulled my senses, I wondered under what pile or garment of clothing my alarm clock was hiding. Groping around, I felt the hard plastic of the alarm clock, and manipulated certain buttons until the beeping stopped. I noted the time, it was seven, but I didn't have to turn in my paper until nine; the world beyond my sleeping bag seemed cold and forbidding, so I huddled warmly underneath my sleeping bag and decided that I would close my eyes for about thirty more minutes of sleep.

I woke up sometime later. I felt around, but was unable to find my alarm clock. I stuck my head out the opened, screenless window and then rested it against the wooden sill. I adjusted my head to look out the window towards the Healy clock tower. It was 7:10. Had I only slept ten minutes? I squinted my eyes curiously as I detected what I believed was the glow of the crescent moon. Could that be right? I did feel rested and thoroughly refreshed and could feel no adverse effects from last night's drinking.

I wiggled my legs to refresh them with blood, and stared absently at the gray-painted brick facade of my brownstone when a fall breeze blew through my room and rustled asunder my printed-out paper. I shot up, swatted some papers out of the air, and corralled the pages together.

I finally found my alarm clock and noted that it was 7:15 at night. I panicked for a moment, as I neatly straightened out my term paper on Napoleon in Russia. I resigned myself to the fact that it was late, and the important thing was that I had finished the papers.

I began to read over the paper, but then I thought, it's over, it's done, just turn it in. I had Professor Wren's International Law paper downstairs, printed-out and bound. So even though I had overslept, I was ecstatic that I had finished both of my papers. Even more exciting, I had taken my big Russian mid-term last week, and I wouldn't have another big assignment until final exams some weeks in the future.

Whenever I finished one of these intense periods of study, it occurs to me that the natural odor of my body has become unpleasant. Clearly, as I felt the itchy stubble of my beard, I concluded it was time to clean myself up.

I began to rummage through the morass of disheveled clothing, textbooks, and assorted flotsam wading around my bed in an effort to find a pair of clean underpants and socks or just underpants or socks. My room was 8'x14'. I only had a three-foot space from the bed on the short side and long side to the walls. As a result, I didn't have room for furniture like a dresser or a desk; instead I kept everything in boxes around my bed. With some trepidation, I planted my feet into the dirty laundry trough and trudged out into the hallway.

I went into the bathroom and examined myself in the cracked mirror. I took off my gold wire-rimmed glasses, noticed that my hazel-colored eyes appeared well rested, and returned my glasses to the bridge of my nose. My light brown, meshy hair achieved a seemingly permanent bed head look. I tried to run my hands through my hair, but it was flecked with dried dandruff. I removed my hands away with some disgust and wiped them off on what's his names towel. I felt the wiry texture of my beard-coming through in an unsettlingly patchwork fashion along the long features of my face; unfortunately the one disposable razor I had was dull and edged with blood.

Clearly I needed a shower, but I soon discovered that the water from the shower remained chilly and an ominous brown grime lurked in the shadows of the tub. My stomach rumbled queasily.

The phone rang.
'What?'
'Hey, Franz, it's Irwin, did ya get your paper done?'
'Yeah, hey Irwin, how late are you working at the piano bar?'
'Till close.'
'Well, you know, my laundry machine downstairs doesn't work, so do you mind if I stop by your place and use yours?'
'Sure, the key is in the usual spot. Did you pickup your Russian mid-term yet?'
'No, I'm not sure that I want to see it.'
'Pick it up and let's compare notes.'
'Okay, I'll call you later.'

I overloaded my laundry bag with all of the clothes from the floor. While picking up my clothes, I found a bank statement that noted that I only had $12.72 in my account, and my rent was due, and payday wasn't until next Tuesday. I fought my way into a pair of filthy, crumbled jeans and a Georgetown sweatshirt from under my bed. Taking some of my roommate's deodorant, I indiscriminately sprayed it, fogging the hallway, and then gracefully pirouetted my way through it.

Kicking the bag ahead of me, I headed downstairs and parked myself in front of the television. I cruised through the channels and kept finding myself back at the Food Channel, which was featuring a dietarily-incorrect show, called, 'Corn-fed Cooking.' As I felt increasingly nostalgic for the Midwest, I salivated at the details of 'Country-style Chicken Pot Pie with Buttermilk Biscuit Crust.' On the back of my bank statement, I jotted down the recipe. Indeed, my mouth was watering at the thought of a home-cooked meal, but I was disheartened when I remembered that all we had in the kitchen was a few boxes of Ramen and some rusted cans of tuna.

I turned the television to 'mute' because I heard a group of people talking outside my door. They had several kegs in the back of a Ford Bronco. I heard them talk that there was several parties around Prospect Street, so I wrote down the addresses on the back of my bank statement. Apparently each house in this coordinated party was sponsoring some signature drink.

While smacking my lips, I slid the addresses into my pocket and flipped around the channels watching this or that.

Around nine o'clock, I put both papers under the respective boxes outside of the professors' offices. I haply discovered that both boxes contained papers that were never picked up, so I slid my paper underneath the respective piles to create the impression that my papers had arrived first.

As I felt the satisfaction and relief of having released the burden of those papers that had been weighing on my mind these last few weeks like bad migraines, I walked back through the dark campus. I looked over at the various dorm and apartment areas and townhouses bordering the campus that were all alive with lights and music and could feel the smoldering energy of the Friday night festivities that were about to begin. I thought that I needed to drive my laundry over to Irwin's, do my laundry, cleanup, and maybe around twelve, I decided that I would go out. As I headed back towards my house, I considered hopefully the possibility of fun that might await me.


Chapter 5

It was around ten o'clock on a Friday night at an American college campus, which could only mean one thing, the university's collective liver was about to ratchet one step closer to a terminal diagnosis of cirrhosis. I had walked up the steps to Irwin's apartment, but was unable to find the key in the usual spot, so I headed back up 'Prospect' with my laundry bag slung over my shoulder towards my car, considering my options. I was hungry and thirsty, but only had around twelve dollars in my account, and the food back in my house seemed completely inedible. I un-crumbled my bank statement and found the addresses for the various parties.

I then observed throngs of drunk students, stumbling in and out of four-or-five different houses, that appeared to be having the party as described earlier. Inside I was informed that a phone was in the kitchen, but getting there seemed to be a formidable task because of the unruly rabble. Seemingly hundreds of students were packed into three large living rooms, armed with empty plastic cups, impatiently nudging their way to the back courtyard where students were doling out the beer from kegs. While I wound my way through the crowd, I grew increasingly irritated, especially when a beer was spilled on me.

I was pretty worked up, but I calmed myself down by thinking, 'everyone is just having fun, letting off some steam. It's all good.' As the adage goes: 'They work hard and play hard.' During the week they download into their neurons verses of Baudalaire, Kantan metaphysics, calculus differentials, Camus, quantum physics, and the Mandarin tones. But on the weekend, they annihilate these neurons and the acquired knowledge dangling on them with a variety of substances. At one party, a friend of mine, who studied educational theory, called this aforementioned process, 'The Sisyphus Method of Learning,' then took a hit of some illegal substance. I would later look up, Sisyphus: greedy King of Corinth who was condemned to roll perpetually a large heavy stone up a Hill in Hades, only to have it come down each time. I also imagined that the Gods made him wear an oversized tripartite hat with fluorescent trim during his climb and only gave him a 20% discount on the meals at the Hades cafeteria. The next Monday, I asked my friend to elaborate on this Sisyphus theory, and he replied that he had no idea what I was talking about. Of course, I might have been talking to the wrong person on Monday because in truth my memory was a little bit foggy from the weekend.

I eventually found my way into the kitchen where I called Irwin at work. He criticized me for looking under the wrong mat until he found the key in his pocket and apologized. Without warning, I hung up the phone and tossed the laundry basket into the corner of the kitchen. Feeling definite pangs of hunger, I looked into the refrigerator for something to drink or eat. I was hoping to find a beer, but there was only white soda. I opened up the top door to find some ice in the freezer, but all of the ice trays were empty.

'Is it so much to ask that people would fill the ice trays after they use them!' I bemoaned, as the blaring techno-music pulsated through the walls - like a poltergeist shaking its aura through the dry wall to that groovy dance beat. I closed the freezer, while letting out a hacking cough because of the scented haze of cigarette smoke that obscured my presence in the kitchen.

But then out of the corner of my eye, I noticed on the bottom shelf: two whole chickens, and I had an idea. I pulled the recipe out and went to work. I pre-heated the oven to 400 degrees and found some potatoes, carrots, and onions. In the back of the fresh vegetable door, I found a six-pack of Corona beer. I smiled appreciatively and found myself more inclined to forgive the owners of this house for the tactless act of not refilling the ice trays because they had the foresight to hide the good imported beer in a place in the refrigerator (why would anyone want to go into the fresh vegetable drawer? Hey it's Friday night, hey I know - let's have broccoli!) where it would not be found by some party crasher. I took two out, and hid the other four in a different place for later when my meal was finished.

After finding a back door to the house in a back hallway from the kitchen, I headed out and proceeded across the street to another party and walked into the kitchen where I hoped to find the rest of the ingredients for the recipe like real butter. A friend of mine from my Russian class stopped me, as I was about to open the refrigerator.

His drunkenness came out in the exuberance of his speech.

'Hey O'Toole, did you get your Russian midterm back?'
'I did.'
'Well?'
'I got a C+,' I admit it reluctantly
'No fucken way,' he said, hitting me slightly on the shoulder. 'A C+, I thought you said that you had a photographic memory?'
'I do, but sometimes the pictures come back out of focus.' I paused, glancing up, 'I wrote that.'
'Huh?'
'The joke?'
'Huh?'
'Could I ask you a favor?'

I handed him a paper bag and directed him to get the potatoes and other ingredients that I still needed. While he did me this favor, I had to make a call into work. I work as a security guard for the Department of Public Safety, DOPS for short. I grabbed the phone in the kitchen and then stepped out into the living room of this sparsely-crowded party. I called the dispatch officer to see whether I was working tonight.

Officer Wayne answered the phone and I asked him to check the schedule. As I waited, I noticed this tough-looking rugby player with a crew cut walk by me into the kitchen. He began to accuse - unfairly I might add - my vague acquaintance of stealing his food. He tried to point to me, but the heavy fired back, 'Don't point at me.'

Since both parties to the discussion were quite drunk, the lines of communication only deteriorated further. I looked out the window as the rugby player, appearing very keen to displace anger, chased him into the backyard, tackled him gropingly, until he gave up the grocery bag. As the one with the crew cut walked back towards the house with the grocery bag, a few of his friends rushed out the back door, knocked him over, and held him down until he tossed up the grocery bag. Suddenly, a score of other rugby-looking players, flew out of the house, and were about to tackle another holder of the bag when he lateraled it to a friend, and so forth . . .

I began to cough because of the secondhand smoke. When Officer Wayne returned with the schedule, he asked - probably because he heard me coughing - whether I was sick. I replied, 'No - it's all this marijuana smoke from the party.' He asked rather casually where the party was located.
I looked around for someone to ask.
The one with the crew cut came back into the party and bragged that he had kicked some idiot's ass for stealing his food.
I tapped him on the shoulder and asked, 'What's the address of this house?
His eyes narrowed immediately.
'That's a local call, right?'
'Sure, someone wants to know the address.'
'Good, we need more people here - the party is starting to slowdown.' He happily gave it to me.

I told the officer the address, and he said that I didn't have to work until Saturday. Relieved, I hung up the phone, walked into the kitchen, dusted the dirt off the side of my bag of food, grabbed a copy of the Washington Post, and slipped out the back entrance.

Back in the other house, I noticed upon walking through the door that some drunk, whose clothes reeked of female perfume and an arsenic-sulfurous smoke, had opened up two of the Coronas.

'What are you doing?' I began severely. 'First I let you come over here and use my house for your party and now you repay my gratitude by sneaking into the refrigerator and absconding the beers that I set aside for myself!'
'Absconding?'
'Synonym for stealing.'
'Why don't you just say stealing then?'
I dismally shook my head.
'This is college,' I explained patiently. 'A time for experimentation.'
'Is this your house then?'
'Uh-huh.'
'Sorry, man, we're just waiting for my girlfriend,' another guy explained. 'I could pay you a few bucks for them, if you want.'
'How long do you have to wait for your girlfriend?'
'A little bit - I think.'
'I've got a better idea.'
'What?'
'I thought five girls live here?' someone interposed.
I handed a knife to one of the guys and led him over to the counter. 'Now I want you to wash the potatoes, cut them in quarters, and leave the skins on, and then put them in this pot.'
He giggled. 'Pot - where?'

I set up his other two friends at another workstation, where they began to dice up the vegetables - the onions, carrots, etc. When one of their girlfriends arrived from the bathroom, she said enthusiastically that she knew how to make a great marinade. She found some spices and flour in one of the cabinets and went to work.

I looked over the shoulders of my various staff members. I was firm, yet supportive. I admonished my soi chef, 'Don't cut the potatoes so thin.' I then added chattily, 'you know, Ho Chi Minh was a soi chef during his down and out years in Paris' because I like to let people know that I know such things. She looked over, eyebrows knitted and said, 'Okay.'

A few more of their friends, their eyes likewise blood shot from some substance, came into the kitchen and I greeted their glazed-over expressions with a folksy, 'Come on - join in, we're working on a big meal!' They, too, took up knives and began to do their part for the cause.

Moments later, one of these fifth-column types stood there rigidly and refused to work.
'I'm not cutting god-damned potatoes for this guy.'
'C'mon,' someone said.
'We've trashed his house!'
'We drank his beer!'
'I broke into his medicine cabinet and stole two bottles of sleeping pills.'
'I projectile vomited all over a Georgia O'Keefe print of an orchid.'
'I've got someone's cellular phone in my pocket!'
'It's the least we can do.'
'I guess you're right.'
And even he took up a knife and began to peel away like a dutiful Russian serf. Some guy made an effort to return a cellular phone.

'Keep it,' I advised in a forgiving tone. 'But the next time you have two cellular phones, and you meet someone without one, you'll know what to do.'
He nodded with great understanding.
I proceeded to read through the rest of the recipe: 'One roasted chicken, several sprigs of fresh rosemary, dried tarragon, two large shallots, one lemon, well-washed and pricked all over with a tooth pick, real butter . . .'
I addressed the group, 'What's tarragon?'
Enough of a pause followed presumably to allow someone to grab a dictionary.
'A plant of the aster family, whose fragrant leaves are used in seasoning.'
There's one in every crowd.
'That means absolutely nothing to me.'
'Oh really, Mr. Absconded.'
I'm starting to like this guy.

The young lady who was working on the marinade called me over to try it.
'It's good,' I complemented.
'It's my grandmother's recipe.'
She took a brush from a drawer and began to soak the marinade into the skin of the two chickens. I offered a more effective way to get the sauce into the meat of the chicken.
'Back and forth like this - slow and heavy like you're white washing a fence.'

In no time, others tried to force their way into the kitchen to help, but there was very little room. In fact some of my staff were becoming quite nervous about their job security, and so they moodily told the others to get the hell out. Nevertheless, I recently studied the concept of full employment in an economics class and I attempted to put this theory into practice. I put one person in charge of filling the ice trays; another fanned the cigarette smoke out of the kitchen with a sheet pan ('No, not like that - you're not trying to put out a fire, slower and more controlled, like for a pharaoh.'); and a third read aloud for the benefit of the staff from Thomas Aquinas' Summa Theologia.

Their ride finally came right when the pan was slid into the oven. I thanked them graciously for their help and told them to come over any time for a beer or whatever. I had about an hour to kill, so I opened up the last Corona, and was about to take a drink, when a high-heeled woman commandingly click-click-ed into the kitchen. My eyes meekly met those of a green-eyed temptress.
'What do you think that you're doing in my kitchen.'
I froze anxiously.
'I'm baking.'
'So you're one of those drugees that smokes down in the basement no doubt?'
I stared back blankly.
'My name is Svetya, and I would like you to know that you're drinking my beer that I specifically hid. What do you have to say for yourself?'
A voice cried out, 'Svet - I still can't find your cellular phone.'
'Keep looking!' She kept eyeing me in her withering fashion.
'I was uhm . . . uhm ..'
She called out, 'Paul, I need you to beat someone up!' She turned towards me and explained with a slight smile, 'He's my boyfriend from the Naval academy and a amateur boxer, and he's very drunk.'
I thought: 'I was frightened at 'He's . . . '
A huge edifice of a man lowered his head to get through the door frame, and his face appear to have chiseled on it a menacing sneer.
I became nervously talkative.
'Firstly Martin Luther wrote in his letter from a Birmingham jail that he nailed to the door that passive nonviolent resistance was the proper way to deal with our oppressors. If you let me beat you up, in my conscience, I would suffer much more than any ass kicking you could possibly give me.'
He replied incoherently, revealing his severe state of drunkenness, 'What's the fucken problem?'
I relaxed a bit, thinking he's too drunk to hit me, he can barely stand-up. I flashed an expression of unconcern to the young lady.
She smiled triumphantly back at me, and then turned to her boyfriend and said, 'Paul, he was trying to hit on me, he was acting very inappropriately. . .'
I was no longer looking at Paul, but a state of psychotic rage that had possessed him, no doubt mostly stemming from, what is commonly known amongst weight lifters, as 'roid rage, sparked by that flare of jealousy. His bare-knuckled fist came wildly at me, as I shifted and ducked, panicking a good deal . . .

Fortunately, just then, the sirens of DOPS sounded out on the street. Paul suddenly stopped, and with Svetya and some other people from the party, rushed to the window to see if their party was going to be broken up.

I heard Svet say, 'Oh don't worry - they're breaking up the party across the street. We should be fine.' And the people filed back into the loud, dissonant music.

Quietly throwing the laundry bag over my shoulder, I tiptoed downstairs to find a television or something to pass the time until my Epicurean feast was done. After stumbling on some shoes, I walked carefully around the darkness of the basement, but was unable to find a television, only a stereo, which I turned on to an acceptable station. Sitting atop a laundry machine, with the bag of laundry at my feet - the air thick with the smell of detergent, I hummed along with the classical music, wondering how I was going kill the next hour. And then I had a thought.

I hoped that I was alone in the basement. I did notice that there were two bedrooms in the back, but they seemed to be unoccupied. I unloaded my bag into the washing machine, dumped in a 'bout half a box of Tide, and hit the 'wash' cycle. I checked the time on my watch; I had about twenty minutes for this cycle. How to kill the time? I sat at some distance from the bathroom, which presumably had a shower . . .

I walked into the bathroom innocently enough just to borrow some shampoo, toothpaste, toilet paper (I don't think we've [my housemates] ever actually purchased toilet paper; it's free for the taking in most public bathrooms; it always amazes me that people bother to pay for it), etc., but I paused when I noticed - rather awe-struck - the spotless, porcelain surface of this long, deep bath tub. I turned on the faucet and put my hand into this piping hot, crystal clear water flow and then dried it against the grime of my rugby shirt. Clearly I had to take a bath. I excitedly took off my clothes, draped myself in a towel, hastened out of the bathroom, and shoved the rest of my clothes into the wash. I paused suddenly because I thought that I heard something in one of the back bedrooms, but then I decided it was just my imagination.

After I set down my Corona beer and Washington Post, I gently slipped into the simmering water and slid my bottom along the slippery surface until my eyes relaxed just above the water's surface and my crossed ankles rested comfortably on the tub's edge. I breathed calmly through my nose, while something by Mozart trumpeted gloriously through the thin walls of the bathroom.

Franz Josef O'Toole this is not such a bad life that you've carved out for yourself, I considered, bathing in the restorative hot springs that massaged the dead skin until it flecked out of my pores, my hand resting on the cool condensation of the bottle of beer, my toes moving back and forth from the burning trickle that kept the waters from cooling, a home cooked meal in the oven, and the invigorating trumpeting of the brass section pinging against my water logged-ears, a good life, indeed.

Because I had finished all of my work for the conceivable future, I really had nothing to think about or for that matter worry about. As a result, a contented blankness undulated through my brain, tidying my mental files, deleting the subject matter of those last two papers until I was no longer conscious that I was thinking of nothing or trespassing on private property ..

Sometime later, reality tapped me on the shoulder when the buzzer of the machine went off. Suddenly I became aware of the voices of people that carried through the walls. Instantly I became nervous that someone in the bedroom next to me had heard this noise, but thankfully the buzzer faded back into the music, presumably having shut off.

I had about six different shampoos to choose from. I decided to create my own hybrid concoction, so I put in two-parts mint conditioning shampoo, one part of an old standard Pert, a splash of Corona, a Nexus conditioner, and some Hawaiian shampoo with real coconuts. I smelt the latter doubtfully, but was then convinced. Hmm what do you know, it smells like coconuts. I then dug my overgrown nails into my scalp and scrubbed vigorously.

I lowered my head into the water and rinsed. I laid there languorously, listening to the steady drip echo through the classical music, while the water cooled. I finally decided it was time to put my clothes in the dryer.

I jumped out, draped a towel around me, hit the drain lever down, and turned on the hot water to get fresh water in the tub. Shivering, I dashed out to the washing machine. While I moved the intertwined, wet clothing from the washer to the dryer, my towel fell off. 'Ah the hell with it,' I muttered and finished al fresco transferring my clothes to the dryer. I then had some difficulty in trying to figure out how to start the dryer.
'How the hell do I start this?' I cursed, as I hit various buttons to no effect.
'What the hell?' I heard, as my body motion fossilized. Composing myself, I turned around and improv-ed to a group of three guys.
'Hey, you get out of my house!'
'This is my girlfriend's house. No guy's live here.'
I had this great comeback, but it occurred to me that I was entirely naked, which was not a good look for me, so I essentially froze with mortification, as I mumbled, 'Uhm . . . uhm . . .' Fortunately, I found a towel and quickly rapped it around me.
'Are you tripping, man?'
I observed that their eyes were visibly bloodshot and their pupils dilated, and a pungent marijuana smoke lingered in their presence. I then said in a deep voice: 'I am your hallucination. Go uhm away from me.'
'See, he's tripping.'
The group broke out into ridiculous, drug-induced laughter.
'Yes I am tripping, and it is such a bad trip that I cannot figure out how to start this damn dryer.'

Though most were still laughing, one showed me how to turn the knob and start the dryer. They then collectively lost interest in me as someone walked by with this portable bright, flashing light, commenting, 'we can have hours of fun with this.'

They followed the light down the hallway, and after opening the door of some back room, disappeared into the haze of smoke. Still flush with the residue of embarrassment, I closed the dryer door and hurried back to shut off the piping, hot water. Before getting back in, I stood over the sink and meticulously shaved my wiry beard with a dull, lady's razor. I paused every now and then to hear in the background a male voice protest that there was a naked homeless guy in their basement, who might be mentally unbalanced because he didn't know how to turn on the dryer, even though it was fairly self-evident that the knob was to be turned to line up with the ON label, who insisted that he was just a hallucination. The chorus of female voices chided him to go lay down and take a nap. I pulled out the international section of the Washington Post and in between drinks of beer, I read an in depth article about the conflict between the Huti and Tutsi both in Rwanda and Burundi.

Much later, when I heard the dryer cycle 'click' off, about the time my bird was supposed to be cooked, I drained the tub. With the wrinkled skin of my fingers, I wrapped another dry towel around me, proceeded back to the dryer, and began to fold the clothes into my laundry bag.
Suddenly, I heard, 'Excuse me, but what are you doing?'
I looked back and noticed that a young lady, who had materialized from I did not know where, was staring, with a mixture of surprise and apprehension, in my direction.
As a flutter braced my heart, I said hesitantly, 'I am your hallucination?'
Her look lost a good deal of its apprehension and regarded me with more skepticism, as she asked, 'Why is my hallucination wearing my towel?'

I allowed a searching expression to fully reveal itself on my face as I said very deliberately, 'It was the only one left.'
'Who are you?'
'Who am I?' I repeated slowly, 'That is the question …' What was her name? I considered in a panic. It sounded something Russian - and I sort of speak Russian . . .
'I'm one of Svetya's friends?'
'Wait a second,' she said taking a few less guarded steps forward to get a closer look at me. 'I know who you are?'
She suddenly left and returned moments later, holding what appeared to be a newspaper.
'You're that Franz O'Toole,' she declared, apparently looking at my picture in the school paper. 'I read your humor column 'Student-about-Town' - in the school paper, your articles, they're pretty funny.'

'Uhm . . . yes,' I replied shiveringly and hurried into the bathroom to change into some warm, clean clothes.

I stepped out of the bathroom while Ravel's Bolero was playing on the radio. I paused by the door and was taken aback that she was folding my clothes. I held my breath as she skillfully rolled my tube socks into a ball and then stacked them into a laundry bag with great respect for symmetry and aesthetics. I've always considered the image of a young lady folding clothes in the dim light of a musty basement one of unsurpassable beauty – correction, surpassed only by the image of a young lady folding my clothes. I rushed over and insisted in a politically correct manner: 'Don't do that. That's my job.'

'It's no big deal - see that's the last of it,' she said, as she put the last folded sweatshirt into the bulging laundry bag. 'Now I have a favor for you. How tall are you?'
'6'5'.' I then asked, 'What's your name?'
'Anne.'
An awkward pause followed. 'And what?'
'Anne, you know, Anne Mercer.'
I mumbled as if memorizing, 'Anne Mercer, Anne Mercer, Anne Mercer, Anne Mercer, Anne Mercer . . .'
She looked me over with some surprise. 'Wow you really are tall, that's good - come this way.' She led me back into her bedroom, and I tried to contain my excitement by thinking about the Allies' cluster bombing of Dresden.
'My friend, who lives in the adjoining room, well, her boyfriend and his friends smoke that stuff, and the smoke gets through that opening up there. It's such a disgusting habit, and well . . .' Anne pointed to the ajar glass above the transom of the permanently-closed door, which separated the two rooms.
'I can reach that.'
'Good, I'm gonna dampen some towels in the bathroom.'
While she left, I took a cursory glance at her queen-sized bed. Her down comforter was as white as the untread, fallen snow of Mt. Olympus and its expanse and thickness cast this ethereal light which caused my hair to turn momentarily a little gray. The bed had a decidedly feminine feel with the pink trim and the floral patterns of the flannel sheets, yet it was more playfully inviting in the way a family of stuffed animals were huddled in a propped-up opening of the comforter.

Anne returned to give me two dampened towels, which I used to clog up the open crevices. Having finished my task, I turned around and asked, 'Anything else?'
'Yeah, how'd you know Svetya?'
The pale blue of her eyes waited for a response.
'Uhm,' I stammered, noticing her for the first time in the brighter light of her room, while her thin, red lips widened into a very pretty and kind smile.
'How do I know, Svetya?' I repeated. 'Our fathers fought in the war together,' I confessed, and then winced slightly because it didn't sound as good as when tested in the lie-proving grounds of my brain.
'Let me guess, you don't know who Svetya is?'
'What does she look like? A picture - that would help. Something that she's touched, so I could feel her karmic energy.'
Anne burst out into laughter.
She laughed at one of my observational jokes. Indeed, she had listener-victim written all over her.

'Well you see, my buddy said they were having a party, and my laundry machine broke, and I asked if I could use their machine, and he said it was in the basement, so I guess I just went into the wrong house.'
'Only girls live here, but it was probably the house next door. They were sort of having a party with us.'
I muttered, 'Uh-huh . . .Anne Mercer, Anne Mercer . . .'
She regarded me with sudden suspicion.
'Something smells really good . . . like coconut?'
I lowered my head.
She drew in the aroma.
'It does smell like coconut!' She regarded me affectionately.
I could feel a warmth flare in my cheeks, and before her smiling gaze, I felt my knees buckle ever so slightly.
Her smile widened.
'What's so funny?' I said, suddenly, and for me rather unexpectedly, becoming comfortable in her presence.
'Coconut, you loser, that's my shampoo!'
We both burst out into laughter.
'Hey I'll make it up to you,' I said, checking my watch. 'I've just cooked a gourmet meal and it should be done right about now, and if you're hungry, you're welcome to all you want.'
'I'd love to.'

Anne and I walked upstairs to the kitchen, but to my horror a group of THC-acolytes had consumed every edible manifestation of food including my chicken dinner with the ferocity of a plague of stoned-locust in a wheat field. I was starting to suspect that drugs are not a victimless crime.
'I'm sorry - you look upset,' Anne said.
'Uhm . . . uhm . . . uhm . . . do you want to go to Georgetown to get something to eat?'
'I'd love to, but it's my treat to thank you for your laundry machine and electricity and hospitality and so forth.'
'Let me check for my house key,' she said, lowering her head to her purse. Her long dark red hair draped over her face, as she sifted through her purse. She proceeded to look up, parted the tangled locks from her ashen complexion, and smiled provocatively,
'I've got uhm - let's go.'
I felt the warmth rushing again into my cheeks as I regarded her, thinking, ' she's very pretty.'
'I just need to stop by my car and grab my book bag which has my wallet and what not.'
'Okay.'