Laundry Stories

I am not sure how old the thick glass door is, but it might be from the early eighties. I swipe the access card, and the push bar lets me free inside the apartment. Waiting on the elevator now for the second floor, and I hear chattering behind me in Hindi. I peek through a long hallway behind a wall. And at the end of the hallway, I see a group of people in decent clothing, and each holds what appears to be the holy bible...

like how today there was this tall girlcrossing the street in the afternoon sundark and pure as a hundred summer midnightsbraids long as her spinelaughing at something with her friendsnatural and selfless as windand the way it plunged meinto the deepest anguish of the momentbecause happiness crossed her facethe way riverwater continually rollsover the faces of smooth stonesand how I didn't know the precise combinationof w...

Part Two: Night of the Clippies A half hour later, Monroe was alert, bandaged and bruised, but sitting upright in the kitchen chair drinking a tall glass of orange juice. He borrowed the phone and called Sheriff Taylor at his home. “Hey boss. My apologies for calling you so late but –“ “No problem.” Monroe could tell he just woke him up. “What’s news?” “I’m up at the Baldwin residence. We’ve got ourselves a killer clothes...

An irritating thing in life that really gets me pissed, is searching for the one damn sock that invariably gets missed. I take great care to fill my washer with sock pairs that match. But somehow one sock disappears when I open my dryer latch! I wind up with the one odd guy that goes to a special drawer. And after every dryer load that drawer gets filled up more. Is there some other-worldly place to which bold socks can f...