Part II

23 August 2011: It was 6 July 2011.  The day after my youngest son’s birthday, which happens to be on the 4th of July.  I say the day after, because it was very early into the 6th--fifteen or thirty minutes after midnight, and as I hadn’t yet been to sleep on the 5th, to me it was still the 4th, the day after my youngest’s birthday.  Some days, therefore, are longer than others. . .

6 July 2011: Right now I am in the darkness.  These other people have no idea.  These five other people.  [Though it will turn out there were six other people.  And, who knows, maybe there were still others, lurking.]  They think I am here with them.  No.  No, that’s vanity.  They don’t think of me, at all.  I think I am not here with them.  But, of course, in one measure, I am.  I am in the same space at this point in time.

The washing machine broke down.

I don’t understand the mechanics of existence.  We must accept the fact we are machines.  A creation.  And we break down, like washers.

I volunteered to do the laundry.  Of my own *free will.*  Meaning, I think it was my own decision to do the laundry.  But who understands the mechanics of existence?  Anyway, I told the old lady I would gladly do the laundry.  I would do it late.  It would be something to fill the long hours on my *day off.*

I work midnights, but I still call it my *day off.*  I have a lousy job.  Booking clerk on the 11 pm - 7 am shift at the county jail.  But the job has nothing to do with the darkness.  The darkness comes and goes throughout life--no matter the trivialities we occupy ourselves with.  This time, however, I have the feeling I cannot escape the darkness.  I’ve felt this way for several months, now.

So, to gather the threads together, at this point in space and time, it is 12:30 am at the Mr. Stadium laundromat on South Industrial.  I am in the same space as five other people.  I assume they are here merely doing laundry--not doing laundry AND wrestling the archon.  But maybe I am wrong. . .

Whatever our collective condition, I dumped two plastic trash bags of dirty clothes into one of Mr. Stadium’s triple load washers.  The shirts and the pants and the towels and the sheets and all the rest of it are being washed right now.

Mr. Stadium is not a particularly clean place--but it is well-lit.  In the darkness of the midnight hour, it is well-lit, and there is a soothing drone about the place.  Everyone quietly waiting to fold what will be their superficially clean soiled garments while the washers whirr through the spin cycles and the dryers tumble and hum and the big screen TV mumbles on low.

Every now and then, while driving, I will see an old sock or a ragged t-shirt or some piece of beat-up clothing laying in the street.  How did it get there, I will wonder?  Did someone finally hear God?  Who told thee that thou wast naked?  When we strip ourselves of our dirty rags, physical and behavioral, we see our lives have been spent on nothing more than hiding.  Like roaches, we hide from the Light.

I’ve been conscious of my condition for several months, now.  That I’ve been hiding in the darkness.  Hence, I volunteer to do the laundry on my *day off* to fill the long midnight hours.  Day off!  There is no such thing.

A repairman will come to inspect the washer--hopefully a repair cannot be made.  I would like to come to Mr. Stadium regularly.  This is a nice place.  One of the nicest places on earth, I think.  A nice place for contemplation.  Far better than the many churches I have visited in this city.

There are forces at work.  Internal and external.  Some for us.  And some against us.  The exact details of this process, a mechanical process (since we are created), are obscure.  We call this process *living.*

There are five other people here.  Oh, and the attendant.  [The attendant is not the sixth other person.  There are six other persons, plus the attendant.  And maybe still others, lurking.] 

The attendant is an interesting-looking fellow.  He appears to be around sixty years old.  He wears gray work trousers, a white long sleeve button shirt and an old brown plaid fedora.  He empties the trash, arranges the laundry carts, changes the TV channel.  I’d love to have his job.  What a way to pass the time!  Midnight attendant at the 24 hour laundromat.  Peace and quiet.  A few simple chores.  In the dead of night.  In the dead of night.  Almost like being the last man on earth.  And that’s about the only way I could come out ahead.

Right now, I’m a beaten man.  Stranded in the darkness.  Defeated by what Luther called *the world, the flesh and the devil.*  I have no more idea how to get out of the darkness than how I got in.  I need supernatural aid--which is unmerited favor.

Time to load the wet laundry in the dryers.  Letterman’s on the big flat screen.  He’s interviewing some young blonde with a hillbilly accent.  She’s wearing a short black skirt.  Is this a *moment* for her?  She has very nice legs.  That’s about as much as anyone can do in this life.

There are five other people here, all young except for an old Mexican guy in a faded fake football jersey.  It’s so worn, I can’t tell which team it’s supposed to represent.

It’s this mechanical living.  The Light is the life of the world.  Without the Light, it is just a mechanical existence--functioning just to pass the time.  Eating and sleeping just to live long enough to die.  Robotics.  Somewhere along the way, the soul is lost, life becomes just a program, the same code repeated day after day.

My function now is to trade my time for a paycheck to exchange for food and rent for the old lady and the kids.  So we can all exist long enough to die.  So they can exist long enough to die.  This is the essence of carnality, and it has been passed down generation after generation, beginning with Cain in the Land of Nod. 

If I were to drop dead here in Mr. Stadium, the old lady and the kids would get $150,000 insurance money--more than enough to get them through until the next paycheck happens along.  Thus, there is no advantage in me being alive.  The double curse of my existence:  it’s absolutely monotonous and joyless, and absolutely unnecessary. . .I’m no advantage to anybody.

The home is a joyless cave.  A government council flat where misery reigns.  I prefer Mr. Stadium.  I prefer a laundromat.  After fifty-one fucking years, the only place of rest is a laundromat.  Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.  This is where I must go to meet Jesus.  I don’t want to get up from this grimy plastic chair.  I dread returning home.  Lord, if there be any escape from drinking again from that cup of trembling. . .

“You can’t use that card two times!” The youngest’s protest still aches in my ear.

Earlier today (yesterday) he and his brother were playing *Bakugan.*  Some God damned Jap toy nonsense.  Little plastic balls that pop open and turn into winged freaks from the chimeric Jap subconscious. 

“It’s the first time I’ve used it!” the oldest shouts.

“You used it to increase your guy’s Gs when you saw my Dice Thrower and now you’re trying to use it again!”

They argue over the absurd, arcane rules of the so-called *game* until the oldest airs the last holdout from his days of magickal thinking:

“I wish you were never born!”

This used to instantly send the youngest tattling to mom, but now he’s grown in his own wisdom:

“Yeah?  Well I hope your head explodes like a Spin Dragonoid and your brain splatters on the ceiling and the spiders lay eggs in it.”

I figure at this point, I better intervene before things get out of hand.

“Fellas, why don’t we just call the game a tie, and move on to something else?”

No.  Of course not.  A tie is like kissing your sister who turns out really to be your brother.  The argument reaches a volume sufficient for the old lady to come creeping up from the basement, where she’d no doubt been relaxing on the internet, complaining to her Facebook *friends* about her crummy husband.

“What’s all the furor about?” she asks.

*Furor.*  That’s good.

The brothers then try to out-shout each other’s accusations.  The old lady attempts to referee the occult fight, but she quickly loses patience, screaming:

“BE QUIEEEEEEEEEEET!

The windows rattle.  The remote control, which was hanging over the edge of the old fat TV, falls to the wood floor, causing the battery cover to pop off, and sending a AAA rolling under the sofa.  Anybody who tries to retrieve it will return with an arm sleeved in dust bunnies.

“Both of you, go to your rooms!” the old lady barks.

“Why do I always have to go to my room when I’m not the crybaby?” asks the oldest.

“No back talk.  Get in your rooms.  NOW!”

It happens every day.  Once, twice, three times.  Some needless loud argument over junk.

As the kids head up the stairs, the old lady scowls at me.

“You have to provide structure for their play,” she spits.

It’s my fault.

Even if I come home to a fight that is already raging, which happens often, it will still be my fault--because the kids are not used to having *structure* when I’m around, so therefore, when the old lady is the only one around and tries to provide *structure,* they cannot accept it.  The old lady just can’t win--I’m too hard to overcome.

But this sound and fury signifies only the symptoms of chronic *everyday life,* the natural friction of sharing a dump.  Unseen is the real misery which poisons our souls.  Twenty-one years of eating shit, of each other’s selfishness and mercilessness--that’s what the old lady and I share.  Ten years of increasing awareness of a crippled marriage and a dysfunctional household, and eight years of having to accommodate a brother--that’s the burden of the oldest child.  Eight years of increasing awareness of a crippled marriage and a dysfunctional household, and eight years of dealing with his brother’s oppression--that’s the burden of the youngest. 

Every now and then, the truth of the children’s hearts will show itself.  They reach a breaking point, and have to vent their resentments.  Their parents are tyrants, and dumb ones at that.  They raise themselves, and our *guidance* is a millstone around their necks.

But the old lady and I have to keep it all stored away. One wrong word about competence, judgment, productivity, intention, money, sex or whatever--and it will all be over.  The truth would set us free. . .of each other. 

We must silently stew, for the children--but even that is a lie.  It’s not for the children.  It’s for our own comfort.  It is fatigue that keeps us together.  To end is too much of a bother. . .

Oh, well, the laundry is done.  Mr. Stadium has great dryers.  The clothes are burning hot, and wrinkle free.  I fold them and place them in the plastic trash bags.  As I’m heading out the automatic doors, I turn back and look to make sure none of the old lady’s panties have been left behind.  The old lady would believe I had left them on purpose, an act of cruelty meant to humiliate her.  How a pair of panties anonymous to anyone who might find them would humiliate her cannot rationally be established--yet I would still be accused, I am certain. 

As I scan the laundromat looking for a pair of the old lady’s battered panties, I notice the door to women’s restroom opening.  Out steps a fat young woman with long black hair partially covering her blotchy fat face.  I had not previously seen her in Mr. Stadium.  She stands in the doorway and stares at me. . .

23 August 2011: Yes, that is where I first saw the fat girl.  At the Mr. Stadium.  It came to me just now.  Just now as the old lady tosses a pair of pink panties onto the laundry pile.  When those panties landed on top of the heap of dirty clothes, I remembered checking to make sure I hadn’t left just such a pair of panties at my one and only trip to Mr. Stadium, and then I remembered the fat girl stepping out of the women’s shitter. . .that was the first time I saw her.

Or was that just the first time I remember seeing her?