Home boy

I watched my favorite comforter go round and round, a fuchsia highway. The laundromat was all heat and humidity being stirred lazily by ceiling fans. This particular unmanned establishment fascinated me--no one ever came to service the place when I was there and the machines--laundry, change, vending--always seemed to work. Who would I go to if the change machine ate my $5 bill? Such things plague tiny minds.

I was staring at this particular dryer load because I'd noticed something in the second or third revolution--there was something small and brown in the drum, something small, plump and brown...with a tail. "Oh christ on a crackpipe," I thought, imagining my cat, Poopy, wallowing around in the laundry basket. "She's left me a present."

Geeeeeroooooossss! I squeaked, involuntarily. Suddenly, the other occupant of the laundromat, a slightly greasy man with gray hair, leather vest, and bright white shirt and squeakers was at my side.

"Smatter?"

His breath was ripe and I squinted and blinked.

'Um...it looks like there's a mouse in there." I poked at the thick plastic of the dryer door.

He peered through his bottle bottom glasses. "Yeah?" He sounded excited.

It hit me all at once. It was one of Poopy's play mice. If it'd been real, she would have left it in a place of prominence for me to step on or trip over.

"Heh..heheheh...it's a fake mouse," I said, using the excuse to move away from his slight odor de must.

"Oh...heheheh. Uhm huh." He then peered at me, puzzled. Or at least I think he was puzzled because his florid forehead sprouted several wrinkles.

"I have a cat, see."

"Oh...OHHHHHH. Oh. hehehheh."

Then he said, "I'm Jarhead." At this point you probably want to tell me my business---you probably want to tell me I misheard him--he said "Gerard" or had a French accent or something. The man said "I'm Jarhead.'

I was tempted to say "I'm Pot au Feu," but the situation was bizarre enough already.

"Well, ok." Eloquent to the last, I opened the dryer door and he stepped back. I reached in to pull out the fake mouse who, in the melee, lost his tail. His fur was fluffy and light and his little pink felt ears were shiny. He reeked of Bounce and dryer burn. I slipped him in my pocket.

"Uhhhh." said my companion, and walked over to the washing machine that was shaking itself silly, slamming against the wall in an effort to get his clothing clean.

How to reply? I pulled the comforter out of the dryer, stuffed it in a trash bag, and left the place with a very false sounding "have a nice day!"

Poopy, when presented with her now tail-less but exquisitely clean mouse, trapped it under her paw, smelled it, and promptly dropped it in her food dish.

There are the scary and the musty and slightly puzzled in the world and there is at least one "Jarhead." Though I don't particularly want to encounter him again, I appreciate his consideration.