say, “It was nothing.” Farmer laughs and leans back in his chair.
Louis says, “Simon had this client who worked at the United Nations—”
I say, “I never found out what he did there.”
Louis says, “Anyway, they were doing it, what, a couple times a week on his lunch hour? This guy, he worked for the Anti-Defamation League, and he happened to always be sitting in the park on Simon’s walk home. And so we went crazy trying to find out anything about him, we were all over their Web site, trying to find any shred of information.”
I say, “I learned a lot, actually.”
Louis says, “You talked about him all the time. And you used to drag me out there to see him and he would never show.”
I say, “He was gorgeous. Real sharp jaw. Eyebrows. I spent all day fantasizing about his armpits.”
Farmer says, “I forgot you were into that.”
Jaron says, “You’re so kinky.”
I say, “I’m not really. Anyway, that’s over.”
Louis says, “We have replaced him with the bearded Mr. Laundry across the street.”
I say, “I’d fuck him if it came to that, that’s all.”
Farmer says, “Good for you. At least if you’re getting paid to fuck, it might as well be with someone hot.”
Jaron says, “I know. You should see the creeps I do it with.”
The fruit bowl is empty, the quiche has been devoured. And we sit looking at the plates and forks and glasses. Farmer is looking around at the apartment, sucking and crunching on an ice cube. Jaron is picking at his fingernails and Louis is looking at me.
Jaron says, “And I do it for free.”
We all get giddy. I smile and Jaron smiles and Farmer smiles. Even Louis smiles. And everyone laughs.
While I’m standing at the window he appears.
Every Friday night the heavy door swings open and Mr. Laundry carries his dirty clothes to the Laundromat. He drags the army-green bag down the stairway and then, with one thick heave, using his shoulder like a crowbar, he brings the load to rest behind his head, arms stretching out to the edges of the bag. Tonight he’s wearing a red T-shirt with the sleeves torn off and I can see a tattoo on his right arm. Worn jeans and frumpy tennis shoes. I want to rake my hands underneath his shirt, feel the soft warm fibers against the tough tight sinew of his body. Snake my mouth along the textures of his chest—smooth and hard near his shoulder, mushy padded sweaty near his armpit, the relaxed weight of his pectoral, the delicate change of flesh around his nipple, sensitive and flooded with blood. Slowness, a gentleness, pours out of every pore of his body. I wonder if this is who he really is.
I’m bored and kind of horny, but no more than usual. Then Louis comes in.
“What are you looking for?” He’s half-naked, sucking on an unlit cigarette again, and the filter has gone all soggy.
“My Laundry Man is out again.” I wonder what his name is, but I don’t say this to Louis.
“How long have you been lusting after him?”
“About two months,” I say, which is a lie. It’s been four.
“Damn.” Louis slides his hand down into his underwear, scratching at his dick. “Want to play Nintendo with me?”
“No,” I say. “I’m going to bed.”
“Did you see the new poster?” he asks. “At the place?”
There is a store about a block down that sells windows, screens, custom radiator covers. The owner is an avid member of the Republican party, and voices his opinions on the current state of the union by way of neon poster board and permanent markers. He has newspaper photos of the president, blown up to look like headshots, hanging on the walls, in the windows.
“No, what does it say?”
“Pinkos Go Home.”
“Is that supposed to mean us?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess.”
Louis turns and walks back into the living room. I watch his ass. He yells, “I think if I were ever to commit an act of terrorism, that would be the place. Farmer could build a bomb.” And I picture it: the storefront demolished, sparkling glass thrown into the street, blaring trucks, news cameras and gawkers.
Louis yells at me from the living room again, but I don’t understand him, it all sounds mush mouthed and vague. Out on the sidewalk, life continues. A homeless man is lying half asleep on the steps of the bank. On the corner is a South American woman selling I don’t know what from a plastic cooler in the bottom of a shopping cart. She lifts the lid, rearranging the curved shapes of steaming aluminum foil.
It begins to rain. Umbrellas open by the dozen, mostly black. Men with briefcases, women with the Daily News on their heads, enormous strollers with giant plastic covers. A woman, completely bald, ducks into a doorway.
When I look back toward the Laundromat, Mr. Laundry isn’t there. I stretch my neck from one side of the window to the other, but I don’t find him anywhere.
While I’m asleep I have a short dream. I have heard that your dreams, even if they seem to last forever, are all dreamt in only a few minutes. So all those times where you’re naked in front of your high school reunion, or you’re falling off a cliff, or you’re screaming and no sound comes out, all that really only lasts a few seconds. Something about your REM cycle. Something about certain chemicals in your blood that calm down your muscles and program them to repair themselves. Something about how the brain needs to process the actions of the day. The way it decides what’s worth storing in the long-term memory, and what can be thrown out.
Anyway.
Here’s the dream: I’m standing in the middle of the street. And I couldn’t say which street, because it was one of those nameless places like that—you don’t know where you are but you’re somewhere familiar, somewhere you might have been before. It’s not a city street, it’s a deserted highway, flanked by lush green fields, soybeans, rows of corn, and brown dirt in all directions. And I look up at the sky, which is purple and orange, the way the sky looks right before a tornado. Only I’ve never actually seen a tornado, but dreams can deliver truths to you like that. And it looks like there are birds falling down toward the highway, falling the way leaves fall, without any sense of urgency, pulled only by gravity and the moods of the wind. But as the birds get closer, I see that they aren’t birds at all. They’re typewriters. And they lose their lazy sway and fall faster, like they’re being thrown down at me from the sky, fired from cannons. And they crash into the street, crumbling the pavement, digging craters into the dirt, shattering the wooden fence that separates the street from the field. And hundreds of them, lying there on the ground, start clicking their metal teeth. And the clicking gets louder. And louder.
Chapter Eight
The N train is not coming. It’s after midnight and they’re doing track work somewhere uptown from us, so it’s going to be a while. Red and white posters are plastered along the columns, listing the places where they’re working on the tunnels and telling you how to get to where you’re going. The station is mostly empty except for the occasional garbage train rumbling slowly by, honking its horn. The workmen down on the tracks lean against the wall, waving lightbulbs at each other, waving their arms and talking. Jaron and I sit on the wooden bench, waiting.
I keep trying to suck up another drop of Coke from the cup that’s long been empty, a three-dollar Coke I bought from the movie theater concession stand. The movie was vague—some romantic comedy piece of crap. A crazy mix-up about two characters who are in love and they’re trying to keep it a secret. Doors were opened and slammed, names were called, jokes were made—or at least attempted.