The Laundry Basket

by G. M. C. Lewis

  The door to the kitchen opens and the room is flooded with smoke and sound.

  “What’s going on?” says Elsa as she walks in, closely followed by Sammy.

  “Speak of the devil,” says Pedro.

  “Damn, my timing is good,” says Sammy as he eyes up the joint in Pedro’s hand.

  “What have you two being saying about me?” says Elsa.

  “Benjamin was just saying, how can a person live in such a dirty room? Es muy guaro!” says Pedro as he lights the joint.

  “How dare you say disparaging things about my love nest!” says Elsa and hits Ben on the arm.

  “Love nest?” says Sammy. “And how exactly do you plan to lure men into your love nest?”

  “For your information Sammy, I have joined a dating website.”

  “Do you guys want a line?” says Pedro.

  “Yes,” they both say in stereo, before Sammy continues, “which one?”

  “Never you mind,” she says.

  “And how are you getting on?” says Sammy.

  “Good,” says Elsa.

  “Been on any dates?” says Sammy.

  “I’m biding my time,” says Elsa.

  “Hmmm, I don’t know about the whole idea,” says Sammy, taking the joint as Elsa bends to the CD cover. “Have you ever thought about the fact that contemporary western civilisation sometimes frowns on the idea of arranged marriages, as it seems like we’re surrendering our freedom of choice, but then we spend years failing to make a choice and then surrender that freedom to a computer instead? I mean, do you really think that a computer is better qualified to guide you in your love life, than your own family who have nurtured you throughout your life?”

  Elsa is staring at Sammy with her mouth open.

  “And one for Sammy,” says Pedro. “Eh, Elsa, you want to give Sammy the tube?” Elsa shakes herself and passes over the rolled-up tenner. Sammy puts it to his nose and bends down to the CD case.

  “It is strange,” says Elsa, staring at Sammy again. Her mouth is still open. She tips her head back for a moment and then looks back at Sammy again and says, “Don’t you think the hardware is so alien? I mean, how weird is a mouse as a sexual appendage?”

  Sammy finishes his line and sits upright, eyes and mouth wide open, staring at Elsa, with one finger still holding his nose. Ben and Pedro both look from Sammy to Elsa and back again, before Pedro says, smiling:

  “’E’s good gear is ‘e?” Both Sammy and Elsa are not saying anything. Ben and Pedro look at each other.

  “Eh, maybe we see you guys in a bit,” says Pedro, before looking at Ben and tipping his head towards the door. They both head back into the kitchen.

  “What was that all about?” says Ben.

  “You got me,” says Pedro. “Let’s get a drink.”

  Suddenly, Anna is by Ben’s side.

  “There you are,” she says, pressing herself against him surreptitiously and pushing him away from the general chaos.

  “Hello gorgeous,” says Ben.

  “Oh my goodness, has somebody been giving you obscene amounts of drugs?”

  Ben smiles sheepishly.

  “Listen to me, my little space cadet, I’ve got a surprise for you, but I can see I might have to postpone it for another time.”

  “Ooh, I like surprises,” says Ben. “Please can I have it?”

  “Maybe,” says Anna. “You’ll need to seriously moderate your intake of intoxicants for the rest of the evening.”

  “Sweetie, I’ve had enough to last me a month.”

  “Oh dear, then it may already be too late.”

  “No, no, it’s never too late. I’ll go have myself a boogie and in a few hours I’ll be right as rain.”

  “OK, you do that. I’ve promised to help Quincy with the sound engineering, so I’ll catch you later.”

  “Hey,” Ben grabs her arm and pulls her back. “I didn’t tell you how beautiful you look.”

  “Why thank you – you don’t look so bad yourself, handsome.”

  “I love the dress – you look like Audrey Hepburn.”

  “It’s called a shift and it used to be my grandmother’s.”

  “Give me a kiss,” says Ben, leaning forward.

  “Whoa, not very discrete!”

  “The cat is out – Pedro just told me that everyone has known for weeks.”

  “Oh, well in that case…” Anna gives him a quick kiss and squeezes his bum. “I’ll see you later.” With a wink, she’s out of the kitchen door.

  Ben’s perception is shifting and suddenly he feels like instead of looking through one door of reality, he is looking through several, and each fragmentary window that he is watching contains a picture that he loves. Time is passing quickly and he knows he is only in one window at a time and acutely aware of the present, but everything he experiences adds another window to the mosaic and builds onto the huge mountain of happiness that he is creating. Kate is in one window and she is dressed in red, as she was before, but he knows she is dressed in a deep and meaningful red now and her eyes are huge. She says that Pedro dosed her and holy shit is it strong and she’s so glad she came and thanks Ben and she’s so glad that they work together and they’re mates as well, because sometimes you just work with people that don’t matter, but he matters and they hug and it feels good. In another window he is smoking with Hendo in the trees by the ponds and they are watching as, one after another, inebriated and spaced party goers, who have clearly never been to Sanford before, accidentally step into the black water and then haul themselves back out, much to his and Hendo’s utter amusement. One particularly short girl on her mobile phone disappears completely under, but for her mobile phone, which she manages to hold above water level. So impressed are they that they fetch her a towel. In another window he is dancing with Anna and the music is so good and for one brief moment, the tunes hit a break, and then, as they start to build again, a breeze blows across the huge crowd of dancers and his whole head and back ignite into spirals of tingles as he breathes in that fresh magic to fuel his fire and then the beat pounds back in and every flex of every muscle commands joy out of him and Anna’s hot skin right there next to him. A window where he and Billy are bouncing on the trampoline and their timing is so perfect that they must be higher than the trees. Then another window where he sits around the huge fire pit next to Sammy and Elsa, who eventually came out of her room after many hours, arm in arm, and have not let each other go since, and he feels almost unparalleled happiness that Elsa is not thinking of him any more, or feeling hurt, and they are all three of them talking happily and comfortably and smoking joints and drinking beer and looking at the flames. More and more windows are opening and connecting with the last and there are too many of them to see and he knows that some are disappearing. But he can’t feel sad, because each one is replaced by a new window, with guitars and drums and rain and lights and colour and heat and smoke and movements that linger like orgasms in his head.

  And then, as suddenly as it took hold of him, it is letting him go. The cold wet dawn has long cast its grey light upon them and long heavy rain showers have driven the party back into the houses and he finds himself with a guitar in hand singing with Hendo. He’s thinking about whether he should ask Pedro for some more when Anna takes the guitar from him, gives it to Hendo, pulls him up the stairs and into her room. She undresses him and puts him in her bed and then undresses and climbs in next to him and Ben tells her that he loves her so much and she says it’s just the drugs talking and he says he’ll prove it to her and she says how and he says he’ll run now to Covent Garden Flower Market and bring her back the most beautiful flowers in the world and she says that that would be nice, but maybe he can leave it till after they’ve had a sleep and he promises he’ll do it after they’ve had a sleep and then he knows she is asleep.

  Ben lies in Anna’s bed with Anna in his arms and grinds his teeth. He looks at the daylight pushing through the sides of the curtains and grinds his teeth. He listens to the sou
nds of the ongoing party downstairs over the sound of his teeth in his head. He looks around the room at Anna’s things: the little fish tank, her huge canvas juggling bag and other circus things, her toothbrush and paste next to her spare brush which he uses, her shift dress on the floor. He grinds his teeth. He feels Anna’s warmth next to him and he feels the tension easing out of him. He relaxes, closes his eyes and imagines that even a plane crash bursting into their room could not disturb his happiness.

  Ben thinks of explosions and the floor collapsing beneath their warm, happy nest and he grinds his teeth and smiles.

  Part 3

  Sneakers

  I love my Asics sneakers. I don’t think they’s as cool as the Adidas or Nike sneakers but, for comfort, man, they are the kings. I am also crazy about running and these two go hand-in-hand, or foot-in-foot: Asics and running. I feel like one of those paraplegic guys with the blades on when I put my Asics on. I don’t mean I feel like I’ve lost my legs; I mean, I feel like I’ve got springs on the end of my feet. You know what I’m sayin’? I had this beat-up old pair once and I knew the time had come to get some new runners, but I opted for some Adidas instead, because they were a) cheaper and b) cooler. First couple of runs I kinda figured that I just needed to break ‘em in or summin’, but a week after buying ‘em, I was back in the beat-up old pair of Asics.

  My current pair, I just bought ‘em last week and so I know I’m still precious ‘bout ‘em. I love it when they’re fresh out the box and they got that smell and that spotlessness. These pups are white and got the blue and yellow stripes on the side, like in a weird shape, (which is like they tried to mix the Adidas and Nike brands, which are cool and ended up with this shit mess, which is less than cool, like I said). I have to make myself wear ‘em when they’re new, because no matter how much the absolute pure colours of a new pair of sneakers please me on an aesthetic level, I am conscious of the fact that these puppies are built for a purpose and must serve that purpose. I wear the new ones reluctantly. If someone kicks dirt on ‘em, I have to hold back from dropping a John-o on their nose, have to stand there and tell myself that this is a necessary part of the process; that all sneakers must eventually become unclean, that all beauty must die.

  This kid I knew in school used to put his sneakers through the laundry, said they come out shining good as new. I’ve done this a couple times and, sure, the results are pretty impressive in terms of getting the sneaker clean, but the wash cycle weathers the sneakers and the stitching comes out; they grow old before their time. It’s a tough trade-off and most the time I prefer to let nature take its course, even if it is vexing when some pretzel grinds their shitty Clarks on my toe on the tube, or a double decker red flings an oily puddle onto your feet.

  Mr Kent is not a fan of the sneakers. The first and only time he saw me wearing sneakers, he told me that appearances are important in our line of work. I replied that I thought the practical benefits of a good pair of sneakers in ‘our line of work’ could also have benefits, and he said that if it was me that was expected to think then I would be paying him. I said that just in terms of running after people or getting away from people, you’d have additional speed. He said that if I ever found myself running away from or after anyone whilst under his employment, then I’d best keep running, as, if he caught up with me he’d shoot me hisself, as I would have ‘failed to generate the necessary respect which we need from our customers, our competition and the forces of law and order in this town’. He said that a shortcut to finding myself in this scenario would be to continue wearing trainers (Brits call ‘em trainers). He also said that if I questioned his authority again without his express permission, I would find myself picking up my bloody teeth with my broken fingers. I love Mr Kent. He’s an absolute don (this is Mr Kent’s phrase – an absolute don – he uses it for football players and snooker players that’s smokin’. “Ronnie O’Sullivan is an absolute Don”).

  I keep a pair of G-Stars in the car for whenever I need to see Mr Kent.

  Of course Mr Kent ain’t never gonna knock out my teeth and bust my fingers. He’d get Bernard to do it and, I’ll be honest, I wouldn’t like to watch him try. Bernard, he’s a big unit. I look at him now in the passenger seat, face flashing in and out of darkness as we pass beneath the orange streetlights. He still goan’ on ‘bout the Scottish dude who weren’t Scottish: one minute he’s sayin’ it’s all a big accident and goan’ on ‘bout the wrath of God and how he’s goan’ get punished, how we’re all goan’ get punished, and the next he’s laughin’ and sayin’ fuck the guy, he should’ve chosen his friends more wisely. He sounds like he’s crackin’. Maybe I should just pop him now before he becomes even more of a liability and throw him in the trunk with the other dude. I finger my piece speculatively. Not a very big trunk on these Brit cars, though, and as I say, Bernard, he’s a big unit. I don’t think Mr Kent would approve either. He loves the guy – calls him his arseshloch. Bernard, he’s good as gold in front of Mr Kent, a con-sume-ate professional; saves all his wrath of God and manic depression shit for me. I keep steering us down the A2, back towards London.

  Bernard goes on.

  Wrath of God! I mean, Jesus, what the fuck! As far as I’m concerned, God is just humanity’s way of filling in the gaps. Example: you understand the jungle, where to collect clean water, where to get honey from the bees, how to shoot a monkey with poison darts you made from scratching a frog’s ass, which vines to boil up and drink to get your freak on, but there’s this great yellow ball of fire swinging across the sky some days and other days the ball ain’t there and it’s pissing it. You got yourself a gap in your meteorological understanding and you’re not feeling too comfortable about that. It’s making you feel stupid and you been the lord of the jungle and all, can scratch a frog’s ass and shoot monkeys. What you need is a sun god. Hell, why not have yourself a rain god too? You can even join up the little white dots in the night sky and have yourself a goddamn polygodrous religion or whatever you wanna call it.

  Alright, now fast forward a few thousand years, or a few thousand miles if you prefer, into the moronic head of the man to my left. Now look at you, come a long way from scratching ass and eating monkey, right? Got yourself some shiny ass satellites up in space so you can figure what the weather goin’ be and phone your momma in Lichtenstein or wherever on the cheap tariff and tell her you’re changing your pants regular whilst you’re working as a big man criminal in London town, selling Colombian grade A and extorting money and signatures from honest tax-paying citizens for shady businessmen. You got an idea from your schooling days that the earth ain’t flat and you don’t need to rip your neighbour’s heart out to pacify your sun god and get yourself some rain once in a while. Still got a problem, though; you see, when your boss tells you to rough up some guy a little and you accidentally break his neck, it makes you feel bad and you can’t figure out why. I mean, you know your momma in Lichtenstein would be pissed if she sees you killing guys, but this ain’t enough for you. You can’t have the buck stopping with you like this. If Mr Kent had told you to whack the guy, no problem, you’re just following orders, but this was your doing and you can’t figure out why. What you got here is a gap in your moral fibre and it’s making you cry like a baby and you been a big man criminal in London town, extorting good folks and all. If only there was somebody could listen to your dumbass sins and tell you to repent and that it was all gonna be OK. What you need for yourself is a wrathful god, some nasty old testament mo’ fo’ who’s gonna rip your big old arms off and shove ‘em up your ass, every minute of your afterlife, until you is well and truly sorry and paid your dues. You need yourself a god who gonna balance the books after you die and restore justice to the universe or some shit.

  Man, I heard that Stephen Hawking dude who know just about everything there is to know about everything, even he found gaps in his understanding and decided to plug the hole with God. And him being the smartest human in the universe. Damn, everyone at it, making up gods and
using ‘em like Polyfilla. What the hell wrong with saying, ‘I don’t know? I don’t know why the yellow ball’s going across the sky, I don’t know why the man had to die today when I gave him a John-o on his nose, I don’t know what’s at the bottom of a black hole or living inside an electron.’

  Religion all about not feelin’ stupid, cos we too dumb to admit we is stupid.

  Ole ‘wrath of God’ Bernard’s gone quiet on me. I look across and the mutha fucker is staring right at me; not real friendly, either. My hand drops to my automatic, as I say:

  “’S’up Count Burn-you-la?”

  “Stop the car. I need to piss.”

  “Oh yeah, sure thing,” I say and put the flips on. We pull up on the side of the A2 on some underpass near Eltham. Bernard gets out and just starts pissing straight away and groanin’ like he’s finalising business with a senora. Man, he just keeps on pissing like a goddamn Niagara by the car. Every time the flow slows and I think, That’s it, time to wind things up, it turns out he is just taking a breather and then he pushes back to it with extra groanin’ and it keeps coming out like a fire hose.

  “C’mon man, let’s go. You pissing for Britain, man?” Man, he is pissing for goddamn Lichtenstein!

  “Quiet, I must concentrate,” says Bernard.

  I’m getting’ the heebie jeebies listening to this goddamn supernatural pissing.

  “Burnula, this is not the time. We’ve got a goddamn body in the back of the car to dispose of and this is not a fucking john, man. This is not what I’d call discreet. If the cops come, we’re fucked. Shut the tap, let’s hit the mac, man!”

  “Quiet, it will take longer with your talking.” No end to the gushing. I look down at his feet and see he’s standing in a puddle of his own piss.