For the past twelve years, each Monday and Friday, I leave work precisely at 3:45 PM; a full hour and forty five minutes ahead of schedule. It is the start of my arduous journey home. One that I willingly undertake, not because I enjoy the means to the result, but because I’m entirely consumed by the end result. The trip is two part: a one hour metro ride followed by a forty minute bus trip. The hope is to reach my destination at precisely 6:15 PM. If, and only if undetained, a feast culminates the journey. I have arrived late enough times to know that the week, nor weekend will be the same if I don’t reach the destination promptly.
It’s laundry time at my residence, and while one might find my affinity to laundry undesirable, it must be taken under consideration that the allure of pieces of garment on the floor, tumbling about in dryer, even the sound of water being battered against clothing in a washing machine suffocate my reason. I’m sure this “fetish” of mine has got to be in the DSM-IV manual somewhere. So it stands to reason that the uncontrolled urge might be misunderstood by many. Still, I must head home… to do the laundry.
Today I’m running late, and I’m in a foul mood with myself, work, the tourists slowly walking on the wrong side of the street, and the rain. I can not afford to miss today. I was haunted by irrational imagery of articles-of-clothing throughout the day. I wasn’t able to work, and the work I was able to complete was nothing more than hand drawings, all related to dirty clothing. I drew boy-shorts, brassieres, socks, cotton tank-tops, even sweat pants. I was so consumed by my drawings that when the alarm alerted it was time to depart, I had forgotten where I was and what I was being paid to accomplish. I kid you not, the alarm is the sound of clothes tumbling in the drier.
My heart ran off palpitating as if a 100 meter-dash sprinter forced to multiple all out gallops. Damn alarm! I haven’t began the race and the sight of clothing being separated into mounds of related colours gives me dyspnea. It is time to fight the multitude of tourists, as well as the uncountable number of taxicabs preventing free passage across the avenue. As it’s happened many-an-unfortunate-times in the past, I miss the first train by some seconds. I grow filled with distraught and nearly go into hysteria, but the soothing thought of clothing being tossed around the washer clears my mind. I set off to the pay-to-ride bicycle shop at the entrance of the terminal, hop on a bicycle, rush to the bike lane to speed down the avenue towards the next terminal. The entire time I pray for a sound train-traffic-delay between stations to allow reaching the station on time.
Upon reaching the pay-to-ride shop next to the train station entrance, I jump off, release the bike to cruise on its own towards the next fellow waiting his turn. I run towards the train counting my blessings. Ha! Graced I’ve been by a kind universe. The “B” line is being held up midway to the second stop by train traffic; some unfortunate fool is being arrested for mooning an elderly group of tourists… they won’t be forgetting this trip anytime soon. Nevertheless, if the holdup continues, it will be impossible to reach my destination at precisely 6:15 PM. I can’t wait for the creepy fellow to be taken away. Train flow must return to normal! I pace about the edge of the platform, tap my feet on the concrete, even tap my finger on my wrist-watch wishing that the tapping would break it, in consequence stopping time from moving on without me.
The man is taken away; trains start to move, the “B” identifying the train is first out of the tunnel… it stops, opens the doors in front of me, and everyone boards. I can’t help but to notice I’m twenty minutes behind schedule. I’m both disappointed and mad. Nothing but divine intervention will help me today. I wish for everyone aboard the train to be clothing-less so that their attire isn’t a reminder of what I am about to miss. I try closing my eyes not to see who is wearing what, but I’m only prompted imagery of what I will be missing at home. I want to cry. I slightly bang my head against the perpendicular handlebars in frustration. I don’t make it a habit to curse, but after such an ordeal, I felt compelled to. So I look around for a good recipient to my expletives explosion, and find just who I’m looking for.
I look at him dead in the eyes. In my mind I look at him in the eyes… because he isn’t really looking at me; but were he, a struggle for stare-dominance would ensue. After finding my victim, I close my eyes, and think of all the bad language which I will lay on his ears. There isn’t one thing I don’t repeat at least five times. I let him have it as if I were President Bush attacking Iraqi oil fields. That doesn’t help any. There isn’t consolation for what I am about to miss. However, I now feel guilty to have soiled an innocent man’s day with out the aggression improving my day any. I shrug my shoulders, mentally apologize to the fellow, and proceed to bang my head against the handles again. Damn be this day! I should have not gone to work. In fact, tomorrow upon reaching the office I will ask again to telecommute on Mondays and Fridays. I’ve asked enough times; maybe the request may be granted.
Time moves on ever so quickly. The twenty minutes behind in schedule increased to twenty two. My only hope at this point is for the buss to be nearly empty so that less stops have to be made. That hope vanishes, and quickly. The bus is standing room only, just as always. There isn’t a possibility to gain any time. Actually, lose some is more appropriate. As many riders as allowed by the law squeeze inside the bus. I am among the last.
Ride long I pray, I even internally cry a bunch. I can’t believe my luck. I am going to miss laundry day. I begin to perspire, feel light headed, I just need some air; I need some space, I need to reach home. At the next bus stop I disembark. I board a cab in an act of desperation, agree to pay thrice the amount the fare is worth, and ask that the law be broken to get me home in time. He would have sped away, but during rush hour speeding gets one behind another vehicle just as fast as abiding by the law. At least I’m not stuck in a bus filled to capacity. But now I find myself with too much time to reminisce about all the years I’ve enjoyed helping with the laundry. Though I also think about the days that I didn’t get to enjoy them. Smiles are interlocked with sobs of the soul. I ache for the missed opportunities in the past, but I rejoice for the ones that didn’t escape me.
My house is visible from a distance, and looking down at the watch, we have gained time. I am just twelve minutes behind. Enough that there is a possibility to reach the house before the day is a total loss. The cab pulls into the driveway, I already have the over-payment on my hands. I toss it on the front and run into the house. Unlike any other day, the door is unlocked.
I run into the house in direction of the laundry room. I struggle to remove articles of clothing while running just so that I can place them in the appropriate clothing mound without any more deterrents. I get there fully nude, then I see what awaits me. I am out of breath, my heart races to help in my recovery, I smile, and stare at each article of clothing, but this time not the pieces laying on the floor, but the ones on her body which I am about to slowly remove. She is late to do the laundry. I don’t care why! Of all the days she could have been late in the past, none was she, but today. Today she is here, hinging at the hips, legs locked straight, her shorts deeply caressing her skin. The pronounced lines of her hamstrings alluding to the feast for which I struggled to reach the house.
I do as I have every single time in the past. I reach to the top drawer on the table outside the laundry room, grab a lubricant she keeps just for Mondays and Fridays to be used explicitly on laundry day, slap it all over my engorged desire, and massage it nice and gently. I return the lubricant to its place, then reach for a blade sitting beside it. I walk in. She welcomes me hello without moving from her position, I grab the blade, pull the top of her boy-shorts at waist-level up away from her skin, and cut a slit on it. I proceed to rip them off her butt… can’t fully remove them as the rip is uneven. The shorts stay hanging from her right thigh. I stare at the beauty of her physique. I swallow hard! She asks if I want to help with the laundry. “YES”, I reply in rejoice. I take my position behind her butt, lean over, kiss her back, stand erect, position my boy in the best of spots in the entire world… my hands I place on her waist, and you can imagine why I rush home on laundry days.
It slips right in, she takes a deep breath. “I’m a dirty girl, I need a bath” is the last I recall before forgetting the aches of the heart that came about my lateness. “Oh… how tight” I murmur…