Good for Nothing

by Brandon Graham

  “Just one, Donny,” his mother says. She holds up one finger, but Donny isn’t looking. She leans down to assist.

  He continues to paw among the bright sugar spheres, eventually squeezes as many as he can into his small hand, and pulls them out.

  “Just one,” she says again, and holds one finger in front of his face. She starts to pull lollipops out of his grasp and drop them back where they came from.

  “Mommm Mahhh,” the boy wails. Clearly he believes he is being wronged.

  “Donny,” she warns. “You keep this up and you won’t get any lollipops. Understand? No lollipops.”

  “It’s fine. It’s fine,” the counterwoman says. She stands and moves back around the counter. Donny still clutches four lollipops in his hand, paper sticks poking out in every direction.

  The mother, obviously embarrassed by her son’s behavior, looks diminished by the defeat. She takes a hanger full of men’s suits from a hook and turns to leave.

  She notices Flip for the first time. “He usually isn’t like this,” she says. “He just got back from Grandma’s house.”

  “I’ve been there,” Flip says. “It can take days to deprogram.” She gives a weak smile.

  “Come on, Donny,” she says.

  Flip moves to the door and holds it for them to exit. Donny walks past, chewing the clear plastic cellophane from the top of a green lollipop and spitting the wrapper on the ground as he walks. He tries to stick the lollipop in his mouth, but the stick from another lollipop pokes him in the eye. He wails and drops the whole handful. Flip lets the door close on the cacophony as Donny loses all control.

  He lays his ticket stub on the counter.

  “Very good,” the woman says. She takes the ticket, turns and presses a big red button on a control box that hangs down from the ceiling on a thick cable. There’s a clacking sound reminiscent of a very large toy train set, and three levels of hanging clothes start to spiral up, around, and down again in a whirling helix of attire. Abruptly she lets off the button and the contraption stops; several hundred grouped outfits sway in unison. She pulls down Flip’s clothes covered in thin plastic sheeting and deposits them on a hook next to the register.

  “Just press,” she confirms. “No dry clean.”

  “Right.” He pays with his card and leaves, stepping around crushed lollipops on the pavement on his way to the car, where he lays his interview suit flat in his trunk.

  The man in the biker jacket is gone when Flip returns. The washers are quiet. He lifts the lids of his three machines and finds his clothes are clean, wet, and plastered to the sides of the perforated tubs.

  He steers over a wheeled wire basket and pries slabs of damp clothes from the first washer. He wheels over to a giant front-load dryer and pitches the clothes in. He drops a quarter in and twists the knob. The dryer churns to life and he watches his clothes tumble and knock into each other.

  Tomorrow is on his mind. He tries to form a picture of Myrna Mays in his head, what her office might look like. She had a tight little voice, so he sees her as little, buttoned-up in a professional gray pantsuit. Her office is tidy and small. In his mind he chooses one of the two seats made available for guests.

  “I see here you have been out of work for the better part of a year,” she chirps. She reads from a pile of papers stacked square on her desk. Her fingers mark the place where she stops and she looks to him for a response. Her eyes are like Lynn’s: green and clear and direct. He leans forward to hear her more clearly, before speaking in a casual, friendly voice.

  “Yes. I have been between jobs.” He tries to soften the situation with a euphemism.

  “Sometimes we find employees who have been out of work for so long have a difficult time returning to work. Have you been doing anything during your downtime to stay prepared for work?”

  “That’s a great question,” he says. But he can’t imagine a response. I’m in trouble.

  He starts working on the dark load of clothes. A sudden metallic keening startles him. He twists his neck to look quickly, and it kinks painfully. His hand comes up to rub the injury, and he watches a van barreling too fast toward the laundromat’s front entrance. The strained grinding of worn brake pads trying to grip worn rotors intensifies. The van’s front wheels hit the curb with enough force to bounce up and onto the walkway, a mere three feet from the front door. Flip, trying to back away from the potential collision, presses himself so hard against the bank of washing machines that he shoves the interlocked mass across the tiles, just a bit.

  As quickly as it started, the danger passes; the van stops, the engine isn’t turned off so much as dies with a hard cough and a series of sputters.

  Flip turns back to his work, his hands shaky as they continue to pull at his clothes. He keeps an eye on the van. Through the windshield he sees a couple, probably eighty years old. They’re packed into the front of a van whose cargo area is crammed with stacks of old newspapers and magazines, and pile upon pile of plastic grocery bags filled with unseen contents, their handles tied closed with colored shoelaces. He’s reminded of a bag lady’s shopping cart, only enclosed and motorized.

  The van was once white, but the paint has worn down until the dusty gray primer shows through. The passenger side door creaks open loudly and the woman gets out. Her door is smashed in and rusted along the peaks and corners of the damaged area. The dent is evidence of a violent wound.

  She’s bent with age, wearing a faded, snap-front housedress, and she struggles to force the door shut. The housedress is not unlike other such garments Flip’s seen old women wear, but has never seen for sale anywhere. In fact, she and old Mrs. Wallace from the Lakeside might shop at the same store. He watches her shuffle her slippered feet to the back of the van, the hot smell of oil and metal seeping in through the door.

  He takes his dark load of clothes over to another dryer, adds a quarter, and turns the knob. He checks the heat setting, adjusts it, and goes back for his last load.

  The old man is out of the van and walking with a hooked walking stick when he approaches the door. He’s short and paunchy, with thick, rounded shoulders and brown arms sticking out of a tight-fitting T-shirt with yellowed armpits. The hair on his arms and coming out of his V-shaped collar is silver, but he sports a slick, black, and full head of hair. It’s as if it’s been colored with a black Magic Marker. His forearms are marked by dark splotches of black and blue, which were once tattoos but now read as massive bruising under his deeply tanned skin. He hangs the stick over his wrist and reaches for the door handle.

  Flip strides over to hold the door.

  “I got it, I got it,” the old man says. He’s missing most of his top teeth and it makes his upper lip pucker in when he speaks. Flip can see the old man’s fat, grub-like tongue wriggling as he wrangles the door and starts moving on his stick again. Flip backs away.

  He gathers the last load of damp clothes while watching the old man find a place to sit among the rows of white machines. The man supports his left leg under the knee and props it in the next chair.

  Flip rolls the wire basket over and empties it into another dryer. He snaps the knob and watches the clothes tumble. Then he adds quarters to the other loads.

  The woman in the housedress comes up the side of the van with a cardboard box overflowing with clothes. Flip holds the door for her and leans back to give her good clearance around his middle.

  “Thank you,” she says, smiling a sweet smile. She sets the box down fast on top of the closest machine.

  “You need some help with that?” Flip asks.

  “No,” the old man says from his seat. “She don’t need no help.”

  “I can get it,” she replies to Flip, without ever looking in his direction. She slides the box back into her arms. The weight makes her hunch over even more, and she finds a table next to her husband.

  Flip lifts a free newspaper from a rack near the door and reads an article about a local farmers’ market that’s being held in the high school p
arking lot every weekend over the summer. It says the event will continue through Halloween weekend. There’s a color photo of a wicker basket full of fruits and vegetables, jars of honey and jams, wedges of cheese, and loaves of artisan bread. He realizes he’s hungry. He checks the clothes, drops more quarters in his machines, and walks out the front of the store.

  The van gives off a hot stink. He looks all around to spot a likely place to get some grub. Across the street there’s a service station with a tiny office and a drive-through car wash. He knows it will have a cooler with sodas and maybe some candy and crackers. But he worries that the old man will steal his clothes if he leaves, and the old woman wouldn’t try to stop him.

  Instead he slides into his front seat. He sees his cell phone and opens it. He has a message.

  “Flip,” Lynn says. “I got your message. I’m glad the interview is moving ahead. I’m calling from the bathroom, so Ron won’t get upset. I have a work event tonight. I won’t be home till late. If I don’t get another chance, good luck tomorrow. I’d better go.”

  Work event. He tries to decode the phrase. But there simply isn’t much to go on. Bottom line is, he needs to trust Lynn until she gives him a reason not to. There’s nothing he can do about it anyway.

  He rests an elbow on the open window frame and taps the phone on his forehead. He considers trying to get a hold of Chad to cancel their illegal transaction. But, he reconsiders. If. If he finds out his monster-in-law was right, if he finds out Lynn is already dating, then his meeting with Chad will make things easier, come Thursday.

  He takes the purple lighter from his shorts and sparks the scratch wheel with his thumb, presses the button. The flame is set on high and he feels the heat it gives on his cheeks. Through his dirty windshield he can see his clothes have stopped tumbling. He didn’t bring hangers, or a clothes basket, so it seems pointless to go back in and fold his clothes. He’s got the urge to simply drive away, leave his possessions for anyone who needs them. He doesn’t care.

  Instead, he digs around among the owner’s manual, maps, and ketchup packets in his glove box and finds a car charger for his phone. He plugs it into the cigarette lighter and pushes the tethered cell phone out of view under the passenger’s seat.

  He heaves himself out of the car and accidentally drags the towel out with his ass. He pitches it back in the car and walks inside. When he checks the clothes, they’re still damp. He drops more quarters into the machines.

  The old man talks at his wife. “I told you not to spend all our quarters on those damn honey buns. We had a box of dry cereal. Why are you so damn stupid? Why don’t you listen to good sense? You need me to smack the crap out of your ears to get you to listen? ’Cause you know I can. I’ll box ’em good.” The old man shifts around and puts both feet on the floor.

  “I said I was sorry,” the woman replies. “If that isn’t good enough for you, then that’s too bad. That’s the best I can do. It’s all I’m willing to do.” She has her back to Flip, her hands on the lid of a washing machine that’s spinning loudly, the motion vibrating through her small, bent frame.

  “Sorry? I’ll get up and show you sorry,” the man says. He gathers his strength and uses his stick to push up to his feet. He falls back into the chair, starts the process again. He catches Flip staring at him and winks conspiratorially. Flip shakes his head. He doesn’t want to be involved. He wants to get out. But he especially doesn’t want the old man to take his presence as support or encouragement.

  “When I get up, I’m going to beat your ass like the old days,” he says. “We have enough money to get the clothes wet, but not enough to get them dry. Are you a fucking retard, Dottie? I think you are. I married a retard. I been fucking a retard all these years. I suspected as much, but I didn’t know for sure. But now I know. You’re a one-hundred-percent, dirt-eating retard.” He pushes up to his feet, teeters, catches his balance, and starts to move forward.

  Flip moves toward the old man, not sure why he’s doing it.

  “Buck, you were always a hateful man,” Dottie says. The machine she’s been leaning on quits spinning and the room is much quieter.

  “What? What did you say to me?”

  She turns to face Buck. “You were a mean little man when I met you. I felt sorry for you ’cause you were a loudmouth and a bully, but you seemed sad and lonely too, like an angry little mutt that’d been kicked too much. I got knocked up, and that was that. I’ve tried to make the best of it. Thought you might change your spots. But if you try and hit me again, it’ll be the last time you get the chance.” She moves away from the machine, steps toward Buck. His jaw hangs open.

  Buck’s slack face bunches up and looks hot, as if he might cry or vomit. He takes a long stride toward Dottie and draws back his free hand to take a swipe at the side of her head. Flip walks closer still, holds up his hand, trying to stop Buck through force of will. He forms a thought, but he doesn’t say a thing; the words stay trapped in his chest. Dottie pulls back one fuzzy-slippered foot and kicks Buck’s walking stick out from under him. He goes down hard, his forehead striking the floor. He starts to writhe around in his outrage and pain. A wet yowling emanates from his downturned face.

  Flip doesn’t feel compelled to help Buck, to turn him over or check on him. He’s content to leave him where he lies.

  Dottie stares down at her husband. “I wasn’t always like this,” she says without looking over to where Flip stands, but he knows she is speaking to him. “He was. He was always just like this. But not me. I was different.” She straightens herself a bit, fusses with her hair, and adjusts her housedress. She holds her hand over her neckline near her throat and says, “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “I just heard that you needed some quarters to dry your clothes.”

  “I don’t need your charity.”

  “Actually, I was going to see if you would sell me a cardboard box. I need something to carry my clothes in.”

  Dottie looks up. “Yes. I will sell you a few boxes. I think I need about four dollars to get these clothes dried. You okay with that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right then,” she says. She leaves, comes back from the van with two boxes. Flip hands over a pile of coins.

  Flip unloads his clothes and folds them. At first Buck continues to howl. But there isn’t much spirit in it. He begins to mumble and weep. He makes quiet excuses to Dottie. He makes breathy apologies. Dottie steps around him to transfer clothes from one place to the next, ignoring her husband.

  Flip loads his boxes and packs them in his back seat. He walks back in.

  “I’m going now,” he says.

  “Okay,” Dottie says, and waves to him placidly.

  On impulse, Flip carefully rolls his driver’s side window up and steers his car through the car wash across the street. Blue and pink foam suds crisscross on his windshield, a curtain of long cloth strips sway as the car passes through, clean water cascades, and a blower chases the moisture away in jerky, backward rivulets. Flip rubs his hand along the fractured glass, finds the window is holding strong, smooth and cool to the touch, but maybe a little damp. When he drives out of the car wash, he still feels unclean.

  In front of the laundromat the van is gone. Buck stands out front alone, leaning heavily on his stick, his black hair standing up, as if he’d been shocked.

  The World’s Deadliest Crumb Catcher

  Flip has hours to go before his meeting with Chad. He considers heading back to the Lakeside, but he knows he’ll be more productive elsewhere. He’s still hungry, can’t think of what to eat. His watches are in the car, so he drives to Family Pawn.

  He can’t find parking in front, so he goes around the block and pulls in at a bar called Old Fellow’s. He tugs all his watches onto his wrist and locks the car.

  Family Pawn is booming. The window displays are packed with band instruments of every description: guitars, basses, amps, tubas, saxophones, violins, clarinets, cellos, and two complete drum kits. Ins
ide, half a dozen people mill around the rows of home appliances and power tools while several others stand over the glass cases of weapons, jewelry, watches, and coins that line three sides of the space. Good to know the economy has been good for someone.

  Flip browses a display of leather coats with security chains running through the sleeves, leashing them to their racks. One of the wall cases has ceramics, and he sees a Smiley Pig cookie jar, like the one he shattered on his kitchen counter. After a while an employee approaches.

  “What can I do you for?” the woman asks. She is low and thick with man-sized shoulders and forearms, and a wispy moustache, as one might find on a pubescent boy.

  “I brought in these watches.” Flip presents his wrist.

  “Uh-huh. I see. You looking to sell or pawn?”

  “Sell.”

  The woman makes a cluck cluck with her tongue. “Okay. Bring ’em on over to the counter.” She walks around to meet him across the case. He takes three of the four watches off and sets them on a dark hand towel she produces from somewhere. She picks them up one at a time. She listens to them, tests the works by twisting the stems, and examines the crystals.

  When she’s done she asks, “What were you hoping to get for them?”

  “Three hundred.”

  “Wow. Slow down, daydreamer. We aren’t running a charity here.”

  “Too much?”

  “I could do ninety dollars.”

  “Really? You mean ninety apiece?”

  “Ninety for all. Thirty apiece. That’s my best offer.”

  Flip looks hard at the watches. He knows they’re worth a couple of hundred bucks apiece. He doesn’t want to leave feeling screwed. But he needs the cash.

  “How much for that pig cookie jar?” he asks.

  She looks across the way. “That’s seventy-five. It’s a real collector’s item. Very good condition.”