Mechanica Mayhem

I was at that fucking laundromat at 7:00AM.

And there still were women waiting to get in. The owner came to the door promptly at 7:00 and his little aged hands unlocked the door. The women outside nearly trampled the old man over, rushing in to get a waiting washer. I strolled in, as stupid as I am, not realizing what was happening before me. The women were whipping out already sorted clothes, and taking more than one washer.

MORE THAN ONE WASHER!!!

Motherfuckers. I ran in and grabbed two for myself throwing in a shirt in one and a pair of slacks in the other, just before a woman, who was, honest to God, taking up four washers and in search of more.

I watch these women as I threw my stuff in and started my laundry. These women were working mothers who had enormous loads to do, and to do quickly. They moved with mechanical efficiency. Military mechanica sent on a mission to destroy. They did whole washer loads, that turned into a series of dryer loads. I found myself struggling for two dryers like I had did washers before. When I was drying clothes, they were folding and packing away washer loads. And when I was folding and packing, they were long gone. I'm telling you, they were like armed bandits, coming in, hittin' it, and then moving out with bagfulls of money.

I was amazed, standing in the middle of the laun- dromat, mind raped, mouth open, arms hanging down at my sides. I was a beaten man. Me and my two little loads. And here I am thinking that I did something today, as I walk back home through the crisp morning air. I stop and get a breakfast and lunch from the cafeteria. It's amazing how these things are tiding me through. I've eaten much of everything in my pantry, and I'm making what's left stretch with the breakfast and lunch that I get from the cafeteria in the morning. Smooth plan.

I come upstairs and notice that one of my pre- scriptions had blown off the windowsill and dis- appeared. I looked around for it on the floor and on my bed but it was long gone. Now where in the fuck did that little fucker go?? I get my gear and split so fast that I forget to stop at the office so that Sugar Plum could photocopy my birth certificate. Annoying isn't it?

"You don't have a phone in your apartment?" Nurse G asks. No. "Oh, that's right, you have a cellphone, right?" Nope. "You have no phone whatsoever?" Nope. "Do you use phones?" Nope. "Do you feel anxiety when you are around phones?" I don't know. "Was there ever a time when you used to use phones?" Yeah, a whole lot, when I was working for Thomson Financial. I had a personal cell phone, a cell phone for my business, a cell phone and two way for my job. I was wired so hard for sound that when the New Jersey officers picked me up for DWI they laughed in the jail cell that I carried more on my utility belt than they did. "So this anxiety is still there when you hear a phone ring or have to use a phone. You get tongue tied." I don't like it when she 'tells' me about what it is that I do, even when she is right. Yeah, I get tongue tied. "You stumble over your words, they don't come out right." That's about the long and short of it. Look, I don't like phones and avoid them if I can. "I understand."

She's reclining in her chair, hands folded across her bulk. I feel as if I'm doing the same. Twin balloons conversing.

I head to Port Authority and get on the line for Greyhound tickets. Two please, to Ahoskie North Carolina. The counter woman is sour, grim faced. She looks nothing like the picture of the glowing ticket agent on the wall. She growls out how much I owe her for the tickets, and says something about layovers and bus changes, but it actually sounds like she is chewing on her tongue. I take the tickets and look them over. They look okay. I just don't want to end up in Indochina in the next two weeks.

Although I think I would like that.

I walk across town to the library and pick up my brother from the library. It' is his birthday, so I spend a little time with him. We walk to Rockerfeller Plaza where the huge assed tree is and I snap shots of it. It's Christmas in the city. I have to tell you, they cut down some huge assed trees every year. This thing is a monster. I look around at all of the crowds of tourists milling about and I wonder what would happen if a suicide bomber walked up and pulled his rip cord? I wonder if I would be so unlucky that he would stop next to me, throw open his coat to reveal his explosive payload strapped around his chest and pull at the rip cord, or do whatever it is that they have to do to get the party started.

I hope to have the presence of mind to cuff that dumb mother- fucker right in the jaw as hard as I can, so that his last fleeting moments of his life wont be the blissful memory of being torn apart by a bomb, but that of my knuckles connecting with his jaw. SHIT! I'm a deadman, why not make every moment count, you know what I mean? Now that shit would be a Kodak moment. A terrorist getting a fat lip just before being rent asunder. Ha ha ha. I bet the rest of the terrorists will think twice about detonating a bomb in public in NewYork then.

My brother and I head uptown, walking down Fifth Avenue, while I fire off picture after picture. I am pleased with myself, although later all of these professionally framed and executed pictures will look like shit.

I say goodnight to my brother and hit the Way on 59th Street and took the ride up to 96th Street. I exit the subway station and plod down the blocks to my apartment, after making a stop at Duane Reade for Milk, and a deli for grapes.

My room never felt more comfortable. I blog for a spell, and then I go to sleep.

Another long day.

Hobobob