On the Other Side of Nowhere

For mid-spring, the weather was malevolent. Rain lashed at the uncurtained windows of my one-room apartment. I hugged myself amid the folds of my sleeping bag, bunching it in an effort to make the thinner parts seem thicker. It was an old thing, belonged to my brother when he was a cub scout, and I’d only taken it because I wasn’t thinking properly that morning I left the house.

The sky had been clear that day, starting out a crisp, unmarred white, and deepening into a perfect blue as the sun rose, as if to mock the frantic turmoil going on inside of me. I’d seen the sign for Highway 51, and it felt like fate. I drove for hours. In the distance, I saw sky-divers see-sawing towards earth and I felt hope: I wasn’t the only one doing something dangerous that day. My eyelids were beginning to droop by the time I saw the turnoff. The sign beside it read ‘Nowhere, Wisconsin’. I’d had a tired chuckle at that.

Downstairs, Mr. Walsh was banging about, making much more noise than usual. He was muttering to himself too, words I couldn’t discern through the floorboards but the emotion behind them was unmistakable: anguish. Not predisposed to caring about things so early in the morning, I trudged to the closet-sized bathroom. A claw-footed tub rested along one wall. The copper showerhead jutted out above it, turned green from age and use.

Cold air bit at my skin as I hastily undressed. I hadn’t gotten ‘round to asking Mr. Walsh to fix the radiator and I doubted I ever would. The water in the shower was lukewarm, as usual, but it burned hotly against my freezing skin, which was exactly what I wanted.

A crash sounded down below and I jumped; my tiny belly jiggled slightly with the movement. I was a small thing; petite, people said when they were being kind. But I’d never been one for exercise and as a consequence had always carried around a little extra padding on my mid-section, just enough to be considered soft. The ill-fitting pinafore at Al’s hid it mostly (the only good thing about my work uniform), otherwise I went around in loose, summery dresses - but they were useless in such abysmal weather.

Finally the searing heat which only comes after thrusting ice cold limbs under warmer water dulled. I stepped out of the shower, gripping the sides of the ceramic tub to steady myself. I had no towel so I used a dirty t-shirt to dry off. Most of my clothes were beginning to reek of a mixture of BO and the cheap, rose-scented car freshener I’d used in an attempt to mask the former. For once I had the morning off since I was working the afternoon shift with Collette, so I resolved to use that time visiting the Laundromat.

Before I’d even made it down the stairs I was accosted by Mr. Walsh. He was a man of medium build, steely grey hair rose in a severe Widow’s Peak across his scalp. As a younger man Mr. Walsh had harboured dreams of becoming a doctor, but in the end had settled for a chemist. Sometimes he wore a white lab coat around just to seem officious and important.

Today, there was no lab coat, only a harried expression on his craggy face. “I’ve been robbed!” he exclaimed and I stopped dead, my thoughts instantly flying to the aspirin bottles I’d pilfered, one of which was resting in the pocket of a powder blue cardigan I’d shoved into a bag and was currently carting to the Laundromat.

“What?” I feigned ignorance, not wanting to admit something only to realise Mr. Walsh had been referring to another matter, entirely separate. I’d made that mistake before.

“I was robbed last night!” Mr. Walsh repeated dramatically. “They’ve trashed everything!”

“They’ve what?!”

It wasn’t as bad as Mr. Walsh’s wailing had led me to believe, but it was still pretty bad. Shelves and stacks had been buffeted about, pills lay on the floor like spilled candy on Halloween, but aside from three bottles of aspirin only I knew about, nothing was missing. Some vandals had broken in most likely, slashing through the thin wire-screen door. What irked me was that it had happened while I was right upstairs, and yet I hadn’t heard a sound all night. The thought sent a weird shiver across the back of my neck.

I was still dwelling on the sneaky, night-time vandals when I pushed open the door to the Laundromat. It was a comforting place, humid and quite still, aside from the dryer thumping rhythmically on one side. The air smelled of washing detergent and reminded me of a mother’s scent, my mother’s scent.

Carelessly, I shoved my things into the washer, barely checking the pockets before loading, and went to purchase detergent from the vending machine. Part of me knew I shouldn’t, but I caved anyway, and bought the same brand my mother used at home.

Over the months I’d grown accustomed to the boredom associated with waiting for laundry to be done. The first few times I’d come here I hadn’t brought anything with me to combat the two hours or so it took for my clothes to be cleaned. Now, however, I always remembered to stow one of the forty cent novels I got at the Odds & Ends store in my back pocket. They were romances mostly, shamefully trashy, but each one came equipped with a happy ending which satisfied some gaping desire inside myself.

Today it was a gregarious narrative about two mountain climbers. The male lead was brawny and overtly masculine; the female was his complementary opposite. I shared nothing in common with either character, and frankly thought the whole thing was a little contrived, but my lips still tingled when I read about their kisses.

“Good book?”

I jumped right out of my skin. The book flew out of my hands, landing with much fluttering of pages against the floor. Hurriedly, I bent to pick it up but someone else beat me to it.

French Toast – Dylan – was dressed in the same thing as everyday, except his brown cardigan was slung over his arm, darker in some places where he hadn’t been able to dodge the rain outside. For the first time I got a full view of his white t-shirt tucked into his jeans and the red suspenders he wore over it. His shoulders were stooped (probably from having to crouch to get through doorways) and it gave his chest a slightly concave appearance. In his hand he held my cheap romance novel, turning it over to read the summary on the back.

My teeth imprinted themselves on my bottom lip as I waited, watching his eyes dart across the cover with each new sentence. Eventually, a small grin stretched his mouth and his eyes flickered up from the cover to meet mine.

“It’s stupid, I know,” I muttered defensively and snatched the book away from him, no doubt crushing a few of the pages.

He shrugged, sliding his hands into his pockets. “It’s no Wuthering Heights.”

“You’ve read Wuthering Heights?” I sounded like Bernie from The Rewind Store.

“No,” he admitted easily. “But I’ve heard good things.”

I peered at him, seeing the diamonds of rain which made the top layer of his hair slick, his amber eyes and long, straight nose. It took me a moment to realise I was staring at which point I quickly shifted my gaze to the floor. Even then my eyes found his loafers. He was wearing socks today, stripy ones.

“Aren’t you usually at your work right now?”

My eyes shot up again. “Aren’t you usually at my work right now?”

“Touché.”

The conversation began to dwindle and for reasons I didn’t quite understand yet, I didn’t want it to. I wanted us to keep talking. “I got the morning off,” I told him. “Natalie was supposed to take the afternoon shift but she wanted to do something for Clancy, so Shauna changed everything around and-” I cut myself off abruptly since I was starting to ramble; it happened sometimes when I was nervous.

“Ah,” was Dylan’s calm response. It was strange to think that he had a name – I was used to calling him French Toast. The more I thought about it though, the more his name suited him. Dylan the Porn Fiend (I hadn’t forgotten about The Rewind Store).

Something clicked across the room and a dryer ceased tumbling. “Is that yours?”

His eyebrows went up in confusion.

“The dryer, Dylan.” I pointed to the appliance in question.

He just stood there, staring at me, looking somewhat dazed.

“Dylan…?” I waved a hand in front of his face.

“You called me by my name.”

It was my turn to be confused. “You told me it, remember?”

He nodded, but his eyes remained a little glassy. “I know that. It’s just that I didn’t – I mean – you saying it – you saying it – it’s…”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he murmured quickly. His ears were turning pink again; it was becoming a regular thing when we were together. So suddenly he may as well have vomited the words, he blurted, “I have to get my clothes.”

I’d never seen someone unload a dryer with such speed and disregard for getting wrinkles in their clothing. Dylan ripped his things from the metal drum, ruthlessly shoving them in his bag before speeding out of the Laundromat.

The room felt a little colder without him.