It Was All Yellow

Irony. It’s a motherfucker.

When I was first married, finances were always a struggle and it was often a matter of robbing Peter to pay Paul, if we wanted to make ends meet. Often, this meant that if something broke or wore out, it might not get repaired or replaced right away.

On one such occasion, our washing machine had broken and we didn’t have the money to replace it right away. I had just started working at a swanky restaurant and clean clothes were a necessity for work, not to mention how nice it is just to be able to wear clean clothes in general and not look and smell like a homeless person. Anyway, with the washing machine out, it meant that our only option to wash clothes was at the local laundromat, which wasn’t quite as simple or as local as it sounds, not when you live on top of a mountain in the middle of Bumfuck, West Virginia and it’s a thirty-minute drive down the mountain to the local laundromat. No Bueno. Nope, no Bueno at all. Still, when shit needs gettin’ done, you get shit done, so you load the wagon, hitch the horses and you git ‘er done.

I mean, it's not like Uber was an option.

Doing laundry became a huge, time consuming pain in the ass. Limited by the amount of work uniforms that I owned, we were driving down to the laundromat every few days and that was pretty much the last place that we wanted to be, because the only thing worse than doing laundry is being stuck doing laundry at the fucking laundromat. I mean, have you ever been inside of a laundromat? Those places are festering fucking pits of pestilence, packed with tales of terror and horrors heaped upon horrors.

Our local laundromat just happened to be next to the local adult bookstore, whose patrons would often cruise the laundromat, stealing underwear from the dryers and often exposing themselves to the customers; a veritable can-can line of swinging peckerheads. It was lovely. Ghosts, ghouls and goblins, the usual cast of characters, those denizens of Hell condemned to walk the laundromats of this mortal plane, casually inflicting their torments upon innocent and unsuspecting souls such as myself.  The laundromat always had a horrible smell and was filled with buzzing flies because someone had left a shit-filled diaper or their nachos in the trash. The place was always overrun with dirty, screaming children, no matter the time of day, or night and the little fuckers always seemed to be unattended. Meanwhile, half of the fucking washers and dryers were full of clothes that had finished the cycle but were left sitting, so that trying to do your laundry turned into an exercise in futility and bullshit, so we’ll just call it futilitous bullshit. Futilitous. I like the sound of that. Almost like it’s fucking Latin or something.

You could always count on the laundromat to provide you with some free entertainment, though. Laundromat drama. Kids fighting, couples fighting, ladies cussing out the guys that were trying to hit on them, people fighting over machines and soap, junkies shooting up in the bathroom and half-crazed patrons, high as fuck on bleach fumes. Crackhead hookers turning tricks in the parking lot, stolen panties, stolen soap, stolen lives, hopes and dreams. Wash, rinse and repeat.

One of our little excursions was particularly memorable. Medusa and I gathered up all the dirty clothes, our laundry supplies, left behind our hopes, dreams and aspirations and we headed to town. Once we got to the laundromat, I started carrying everything inside while Medusa, started the different loads of wash. The first load she started was my white work shirts and she was reaching for the bleach as I turned around and headed back to the car to get the rest of the laundry.

On my way out the door, I stopped to use the restroom and there was some naked homeless guy in there, standing in front of the mirror. Luckily for me, he was standing there with a proud boner and he was washing out his tread mark tracked underwear in the sink. As tempting as the whole scene was, with all those endless possibilities for adventures with proud boner homeless guy, I figured I could keep my hands to myself and hold my pee for a little while longer. I promptly left.

That was before I noticed the trash can with the sign that read, “Not a toilet.”

Judging from the smell, someone had used it for a toilet.

Nice.

Shaking my head, I walked back out to the car and grabbed the rest of the laundry and brought it inside. We started the rest of the wash and then did our best to avoid making eye contact with absolutely everyone. We tried to wish ourselves invisible, while we waited for the wash cycle to finish.

My nose started to burn and I noticed that the smell of bleach was unusually strong. I was catching a bad buzz from the overpowering fumes.

At some point, Medusa looked over at me, caught my attention and said, “I think I may have screwed up.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I think I might have accidentally bleached your work shirts twice,” she confessed.

“Oh. I’m sure it will be fine. It’s bleach. What’s the worst that could happen? The shirts get whiter?” I replied.

Not long after that exchange, the first few loads of wash finished and we both grabbed those little silver rolling carts with the broken wheels that are always full of someone else's shit, just when you need one and we transferred the clothes from the washing machines to the carts and then from the carts to the dryer. What should have been a seamless and efficient process wasn't, because the fucking carts never line up right with the fucking washing machines and one of my work shirts fell on the foul and filthy floor of the laundromat, laying there atop generations of grime and excrement that had accumulated like a crust upon the unwashed tiles. Horrified, I quickly snatched up the shirt, praying that the five second rule applied to articles of clothing too. As I was about to toss the shirt back into the basket, I noticed that something about the color was a little off. In fact, shit was more than a little off, because I noticed that the white dress shirt in my hands had turned to a deep shade of yellow, kinda’ sorta’ the color of cat piss. Freaking the fuck out, I started digging through the basket and sure enough, all my white shirts had either turned yellow or were covered in yellow splotches.

I kept right on freaking the fuck out.

“Holy fucking shit,” I said.

“What’s wrong?” Medusa asked.

Yeah, I just kept freaking the fuck out. I showed Medusa the shirts.

“Look what you fucking did.” I accused.

“Holy shit!” Medusa said.

“Yeah, no shit, holy shit. You ruined my fucking work shirts,” I continued. “They’re destroyed and we don’t have any money to buy new ones. I have to work in the morning. What the fuck am I supposed to do? How could you be so fucking stupid?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It was an accident.”

“That’s not good enough,” I ranted. “What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

It got worse. I got worse. I was freaking out about being able to work the next day and I was being a complete fucking asshole about it, unloading a double barrel full of bullshit buckshot upon Medusa in the process and I just wouldn’t let up. Medusa apologized over and over. Rationally, I knew that it had been an accident, a mistake, but I wouldn’t let it go. Yeah, I was a fucking asshole.

"Maybe if would help if we wash the shirts again?" Medusa asked.

"Maybe," I said.

"Should I add beach?" she asked.

I wanted to fucking kill her. Figuratively.

So, we tried washing the shirts again and while they were in the machine, our bouts of sullen silence were broken and punctuated by more rounds of bickering and accusations. The two of us started fighting about shit that had nothing to do with the shit that we were fighting about. We had just become the free entertainment that I had mentioned earlier. After what seemed like forever, the shirts were done. Yeah, they were fucking done, alright. They were still just as yellow as they had been when they started and this got me started all over again. With an uneasy truce, we finished folding the laundry, packed up the car, drove for a bit in complete silence, but then we started fighting in earnest; a short vicious war.

A war that almost ended with Medusa telling me, “I don’t know what else you want me to say. I don’t know how many times I can apologize. It was an accident. I’m sorry.”

I could have let it go, right there. I could have, but I didn’t. Instead, asshole that I was, I got pissed off all over again and I yelled at her, “Just be quiet! Don’t say another word. I don’t want to hear a single fucking word that you have to say.”

My hand stabbed at the car stereo and cranked the volume up, hoping to drown out any response from Medusa.

And Chris Fucking Martin, that dirty, miserable, motherfucker, sang out from my speakers.

“And it was all yellow…”

You've got to be fucking kidding me. Of all the fucking songs that could have possibly played at that moment in time and it just fucking had to be that one? And at that exact spot? Seriously?

Get the fuck out of here. That was some truly cosmic bullshit, right there.

Motherfucker.

Irony, divine retribution and a dose of instant fucking karma, all in one bite. Lucky me. If I were really lucky, I might just choke to fucking death on it.

No such fucking luck.

Medusa couldn’t help herself, she started laughing her head off, cackling the entire way home.

Fuck me. Humiliated, I changed the station, stabbing angrily at the button as if I were driving a stake into Chris Martin’s cold and lifeless heart and then I just fucking drove home without saying another word. I mean, what the fuck could I even say?

Irony. Yeah, it’s a stone cold bitch.

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All Along the Watchtower

Mr. Toad's Not So Wild Ride

Just another quick snapshot of the weird, random shit that is my life…

After I’d finished working tonight, I was walking over to my car when I noticed what appeared to be a homeless person walking nearby. Wearing a puffy coat, fuzzy slippers and a knit cap, she was carrying a sleeping bag and some other shit. I don’t know what kind of other shit, because I was trying extra hard not to pay attention to her and I knew that if she saw me, I was dead. Once she had me in her sights, she’d zero in on me like a hungry zombie and I’d be hit up for money that I didn’t have and certainly wasn’t about to give away to some random fucking homeless person, so that they could spend my hard-earned money on alcohol and drugs. Hell, no. I needed that money so that I could spend it on alcohol and drugs. And hookers. Can’t forget the hookers. It’s all about priorities, ducks in a row, that sort of shit. I just wanted to decompress a little, after a long day; light up a smoke, chill for a minute or two and then head home. Is that too much to ask? Maybe it sounds cold, but I just didn’t fucking care. I did not want to be bothered by some random homeless person, or any person, for that matter. I just wanted to smoke a stogie and head the fuck home. I needed to change my clothes and head over to my girlfriend’s house where I had planned to spend the night. I had some things to take care of in the morning and being the responsible motherfucker that I am, I was ready to be pretty much adult-like and shit and get on my way. I knew that the moment homeless girl saw me spark up, it would be like a moth drawn to a flame and there was just no fucking way that I was going to let that happen. I cut off at an angle that brought me closer to my car and I picked up my pace.

I made it to my car without her seeing me. At least that’s what I thought as I opened the door.

I was shoving some shit into my car when there was a loud knock on the passenger window that just about scared the living shit out of me. Just about. There was no squishy, which was good. It always makes me happy when I don’t shit my pants.

Surfuckingprise, motherfucker!

I looked up and there she was, face pressed up against the glass like something out of The Walking Fucking Dead. Holy fucking shit balls! I begged my heart to slow the fuck down. She darted away from the window and materialized at my side, like Scotty had beamed her the fuck up or something and suddenly, she was right the fuck in front of me. I noticed that she was young, around eighteen or nineteen, seemed nervous and jumpy and looked like she’d been crying her eyes out. I figured I was about to get some sob story and a plea for money, but she took me by surprise.

“Could you please give me a ride somewhere?” the girl asked me.

Caught off guard, I answered with a very reluctant, “Sure,” because that’s what I always fucking say when I’m about to do something that I really don’t want to do and I really didn’t want to do this, but I felt sort of bad for her and in my fucked up and simple mind, I imagined that maybe she’d been kicked out by her parents or boyfriend and maybe that explained why she looked like she’d been crying and maybe I’m just a big fucking idiot, but I’ve been trying out this whole humanity thing and I’ve been practicing having human emotions for the past few weeks and empathy just happened to be her lucky fucking day.

Fuck you, empathy.

New rule: no more empathy days.

And fuuuuck. I was going to stop at the store and get smokes and a Coke, but there was no way that I was going to leave this chick unsupervised in my car, so scratch that idea. Oddly enough, trusting strangers just isn’t my forte. I’m silly like that.

I asked the girl where she was going and she told me just down the street. Solid fucking answer.

I hopped in the car and grabbed my backpack and jacket and threw them into the back seat. She opened the passenger door and sat down. I asked her once again where she was going.

“Down the street,” she said again and pointed. Well, that answer was really, really, extra fucking helpful. Bravo! I wrote it off as her being upset, or freaked out, or a fucking idiot, or whatthefuckever. I noticed that she had a lighter clutched in her hand and I told her that I’d noticed it and that I smoked and that if she wanted to smoke, she could go ahead and light one up if she wanted to. Totally fucking magnanimous, right? I’m such a fucking stand-up guy.

“Can I have a cigarette?” she asked.

Fuck me. I fucking knew it. Me and my big fucking mouth.

“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t have any cigarettes; I only have cigars.”

“Can I have a cigar?”

Fuck me twice. Without lube.

I reluctantly handed her a cigar and we both lit up.

As I was about to pull out of the parking lot, I asked her nicely, once the fuck again, to please give me some kind of fucking clue as to where the fuck we might be going.

“Just down the street,” she said again.

I wanted to slap a motherfucker. I’d say bitch slap, but some pussy is bound to get their panties in a wad and get all fucking Social Justice Warrior on me and call me a misogynist and shit, which totally isn’t true, because I fucking love bitches, so I won’t say that.

But maybe this twit could do more than point and grunt. For fuck’s sake, she’d managed to utter a fucking complete sentence. Several times. Granted, it was the same fucking sentence, but it was a start.

Exasperated, I asked, “Straight down Barkeley, or turn on Orleans?”

“Turn on Orleans,” she replied.

Oh, an actual fucking answer. Great job! You get a fucking trophy! Thanks, for participating.

“Where to from there?” I asked.

No! Don’t even say it! Fuck! I was ready to kill a motherfucker and hide the body. I took a deep breath. This was all my fault; I’d asked for it.

“Just down the street.”

Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck.

Just down the street. Just down the street. Just down the motherfucking street. That’s where I planned on kicking her ass out of the fucking car, if she didn’t start coming up with some real answers.

“Look.” I said in my calmest and nicest you’d better answer me or get the fuck out of my car voice. “I don’t plan on driving around all night. I’ve got places to go and things to do, so if you want a ride, you need to tell me where we’re going, because that would be really helpful.”

Hell, I had even started to wonder if I was being set up to get jacked. If that was the case and things went south, I’d snap her neck before she could get out of the car. Fuck that shit.  If the choice is on my feet or on my knees, the choice is always going to be on my feet.

And then a sense of déjà vu came over me and I wondered if she was going to try to solicit me for money for sex and I make it a cardinal rule to never accept money for sex, because it makes me feel like a whore and I am totally not a whore. So, if she was a prostitute, she was failing miserably and totally barking up the wrong tree. Besides, I’d already done this scene before (and you can read about it here – The Hitcher).

“Do you know where Sixth Street is?” she asked.

“No,” I answered, “So you’ll have to tell me.”

“Do you know where I-5 is?” she asked.

Two fucking sentences in a row. You go, girl!

“Yeah,” I answered. “It’s just down the street.”

“It’s over by there,” she said.

Seriously?

“So is a lot of other shit,” I said. “Could you be a little more specific?”

By this time, the street we were on came to a “T” intersection and I had to turn right or left. She had said I-5 and the highway was only two blocks away. I was done with the bullshit and she needed to get the fuck out of my car. I turned right and kept going until I noticed that the street dead-ended at the highway and there was only one cross street before I would be committed to the unlit dead-end area and there was no fucking way that I was driving back there. My spidey sense was tingling.

“Right up there is good,” she said

.

No, right here is fine,” I said and I pulled over to the curb.

As she grabbed up her stuff, I still felt kind of bad for her, so I offered her my last cigar. She snatched that fucking thing from my hand so quick, I’m glad it wasn’t a fresh turd, because shit would have splattered everywhere.

I watched her exit the car and she left the front door open, turned around and reached for the back door.

What the fuck? I hadn’t seen her put anything in the back seat. What kind of fuckery was this?

She opened the back door and grabbed my backpack, which had my laptop, Kindle, wallet, money and weed inside.

Oh, fuck no. Help a motherfucker out and they try to steal your shit. No fucking way.

My hand shot out and grabbed her arm, hard enough to bruise.

“No! That’s mine!” I shouted. “Get the fuck out of here!”

Hey, I thought I sounded pretty fucking butch at the time.

I shoved her out of my car and she slammed into the back door and fell on her ass. The door swung shut, she jumped up and ran like hell; a blur in the dark.

What the fucking fuck?

Seriously? What the fuck had just happened?

I reached over and pulled the passenger door shut, turned the car around and headed for home. I gave my girlfriend a call and told her what had happened, and what a bizarre explanation that poor woman had to hear.

She’s still not sure what happened.

Hell, I’m still not sure what happened…

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