Plate Armor and Spacesuits Both Hold Farts

by S J Cavanagh

“Hey, here’s my best buddy again!” exclaimed the washing machine as Doug entered the laundry, basket under arm. “Second load this week! Doug, you’re really looking after yourself.”

  “Yeah,” said Doug. He raised the machine’s lid, set down the basket, and began sorting the clothes into whites and colours.

  The washing machine’s speaker gave an electronic tsk.

  “You’re looking kind of tired, pal,” it said. “Been sleeping well?”

  “Not really.”

  A white pair of socks arced into the machine’s tub, followed by cricket pants. The washing machine gave a click and began to fill its tub with water.

  “I don’t see any of your partying clothes in there,” said the machine, aiming its bulb camera at the basket. “You’re still not getting out with your friends much?”

  “No,” grunted Doug. “One scoop?”

  “Yeah, one should be fine.”

  Water gushed. Clothes fell into tub and pile.

  “I don’t want to be pushy, Doug,” the appliance’s voice was soft. “But is it still because of your mother passing away?”

  Doug hesitated.

  “It’s been nearly a year, buddy,” added the washing machine, starting to agitate. “It seems to me…”

  “Don’t start,” snapped Doug, slam-dunking two t-shirts into the tub. “Don’t tell me to ‘move on’ or to ‘get over it’. That’s just code for ‘I’m sick of your moping’.”

  “Whoa, dude,” said the washing machine. “Sorry, you misunderstood me. Ever since the car accident I’ve seen you tired, I’ve seen you grumpy and I’ve seen you sad, but not once have I seen you cry or let it out. You don’t need to ‘move on’, pal. You need to grieve.”

  Doug’s mouth tightened. “I don’t need…”

  “Yes,” said the tender voice of the appliance. “You do.”

  Moisture glimmered on Doug’s poker face. He turned back to the basket and pulled out his only white collared shirt, worn at cricket, formal occasions and funerals.

  Doug shook as the tears came. “I was going to drive her that day,” he sobbed.

  “It’s not your fault, Doug. She wouldn’t blame you and you don’t need to either. Let it go.”

  Water flowed.

  Doug coughed and straightened, dabbing at his face.

  The washing machine gave a compassionate click. “Moving on isn’t about leaving your mother behind, Doug. It’s about moving on from the pain. Getting to a place where you can sleep, or be happy again. Do you think you can get there?”

  Doug exhaled heavily. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I can. Thanks.”

  “Buddy, what are friends for?”

  Doug checked the white shirt’s instruction tag.

  WARM, GENTLE MACHINE WASH.

  He threw it in.