Airing the Laundry

Airing the Laundry

It was the kind of morning that didn't expect much relief from the week's stagnation. Instead, a vague hope subsisted--more like a prayer, really. Everything on the acreage behind the worn out home, the overgrown prairie-lawn, the tired apple tree, even the paint-deprived shed, all surrendered to the stifling pressure of that August day.

Midmorning, a small woman stepped out of the blistered, white house carrying a cracked, purple laundry basket. The basket, full of wet clothing, required all her strength to carry it over to the line. Season after season, she returned to the same place, wearing down the grass to an oval hollow. She liked to stand in the smooth place; it felt comfortable to her, better than the needy lawn with its uneven landscaping and occasional molehills. A few strands of pale, gold hair escaped her shoulder-length ponytail. She brushed back the hair with her arm while she pinned the laundry to the line.  Working methodically, her gray eyes focused on some point beyond the yard. When she had finished her task, she wiped her damp forehead tiredly and disappeared inside the sagging home.

Not even a sigh moved the tattered towels and faded clothing. Stiff and miserable, they settled into their weight causing the lines to slouch closer to the ground. Originally, the starch-white poles commanded strict obedience across the laundry lines. These days, the corroding poles eased toward one another, ashamed of shifting the responsibility to the lines, yet, unable to cope because of the weakened bases.  The steamy day only added to the burden of the line and caused the clothing to sink closer to the hollow place.

Later that afternoon, something stirred. The heaviness of the day was building towards something. They all sensed it, felt it bubbling in the day's steamer. The clothing on the line tentatively sniffed at the air; perhaps, this would finally be the opportunity to escape their fettered existence. Like the damp garments, the apple tree could feel the change. Instinctively, she clung tighter to her ripened fruit and straightened a little to get a better look. High above her, against the blue furrows of the sky, a progeny of marshmallow monsters advanced toward them. They marched in time to the faint cadence of invisible, thunderous drum corps.

Jim's suit, a pilled, Sears special watched the approaching clouds with anticipation. He was anxious to shed his cloaked resentments. Newer, younger suits flashed their ties like perfect No. Two pencils. Unwritten codes governed the corporate office, having less to do with performance, and more about the look and feel of success. They stamped their arrogance on expensive suits and cars; cutouts displayed against the company's canvas. Jim knew he wanted to succeed, but refused to dress the part--a man should be accepted for his mind and contributions. The company had made it clear, he wasn't indispensable. Jim's suit took the back row, faded and straining against the seams.

Sue's blouse shared one pin with Jim and the other with Gordy's basketball shirt. She preferred this spot in the full sun, even though the bright rays had faded her into something inexpressible. Originally, her rich, russet colored blouse made from a heavy silk and frilled around the edges felt luxurious against the skin. Now, the faded material was thin and frayed. Certainly, if she had any money, she would march right into Younker's, pick out the most expensive blouse on the rack, and plunk it on the counter in front of Velvet. A beaky, yellow-coifed woman who bought her ugly, polyester suits on double discount, Velvet managed to make Sue feel as though she had a virus, capable of inflicting her insipid existence upon the woman. For a time, Sue had responded with kindness to Velvet's snobbery, but over the years, Sue lost her sense of self and no longer shopped there. She looked toward the sky and tried not to fret. While a refreshing rain would cool them off, she didn't know if she wanted to face another storm. Ever since lightning struck the pole nearby, sending shockwaves down the line, she cringed every time storms appeared on the horizon. The worst part wasn't the jolt, the brilliant flash of light, or even, the rumbling thunder--it was the awful silence right before the lightning hit. The type of quiet you can feel invading your atoms and forcing itself out through the hair on the back of your neck. She was thankful to be anchored between Gordy and Jim.

Gordy's basketball shirt rippled impatiently next to her. A large, white jersey emblazoned with All State Champions, Pride of the Indians, Gordy practically squirmed at the thought of an impending storm. He was a go-getter, always had been. Never content to sit still in one spot for very long, Gordy could best be described as a blur. Just when you thought you knew what he was up to, he had already moved on to the next activity. He had bigger dreams than his parents, for heaven's sake. He planned to escape by getting a basketball scholarship, then go on to the NBA. Coach Jok said it might be possible, if Gordy wouldn't be such a loafer about his academics. He knew he had to work harder, but what had college ever done for his parents? He watched how they worked themselves to fatigue; he wasn't going to be like that. He had it all in the bag; he'd dump his rags for an opulent lifestyle--hanging around the pool with scantily clad women and movie stars. Yes, sir, that was his plan. He bounced expectantly in the breeze. He was going to ride this storm all the way to the bank.

Towards the opposite end of the line, April's shorts thrilled at the possibility of freedom. As the first drops of rain pelted her, she shrugged; it wasn't her first storm. Any storm that would carry her far from home was worth a little, extra flirtation on her part. April didn't have any  aspirations; she just wanted out. She had a boyfriend, but their relationship wasn't a big deal.  Danville was a hick town, full of people who looked down on her if she so much as thought about wearing different colored socks. She could just as easily head out of town and never look back. She wiggled a bit on the line, hoping to catch the wind just right.

The roiling, dark clouds above them ticked around in a clockwise direction, swirling like a large top working into its momentum. Cold air pumping into the hot, slowly increasing the rotation of the clouds and gathering more and more soldiers into its mix; until, it was like night outside.

"Jim, you are loyal, but you lack the initiative of our star employees. Take, Bobby, for example; he's a real go-getter. Raised sales and productivity substantially since taking over his department," said Jim's boss.

Dick sat perfectly at ease behind his large desk, leaning back and clasping his hands behind his polished cue-ball of a head. Jim looked around the spacious office with its corporate invigoration posters. Or was that instillation? One poster particularly annoyed him; he didn't know how the picture of a rock climber was supposed to imbue feelings of courage. At the bottom of the poster it read, 'Take the risk and rise to the top.' Jim didn't think anyone sprawled on the bottom of the corporate rubble would feel very motivated about risking their careers only to fall back into the pile again--much like he had.

Jim's silence seemed to make Dick uncomfortable; he sat up straight and found his No. 2 pencil, tapping it against the dark surface of the desk. Jim supposed this was when he should offer his plan for improving his sales, outline new initiatives, and basically beg to keep his job. Looking outside at the darkening sky, Jim couldn't remember the last time he had felt challenged by his job. He had given a substantial part of his life to this company, and they had returned so little to him.

Dick sighed. "Jim, as much as I'd like to give you a raise this year--can't do it. Company's streamlining. Business is down and with your productivity down as well...corporate will never go for it."

Jim didn't think for a minute Dick had ever intended on giving him a raise.

"I see," Jim said quietly. He wouldn't beg him for a raise, even though, Jim desperately needed the money.

"Tell you what, how 'bout we plan to meet in six months and see how you're doing, hmm?"  Dick stood up, indicating the meeting was over.

Jim nodded, but his stomach churned. There was nothing left to say; he had tried arguing years before, back when he thought the company held the future over his head. Every step he took towards it, they yanked it just a little bit further out of reach. How many promotions had he successfully exceeded the goals? And yet, today's world belonged to the flock of suits willing to trade excellence for the trappings of mediocrity, glazing over yesterday's accomplishments.

"So...we'll reconvene in six months and see if we're on track, all right? Anything else you want to add?" Dick glanced at him then picked up the phone, indicating the end of the performance review.

Jim stood up, his mouth dry and the eddy in the pit of his stomach threatening to swallow him. He slowly walked toward the door; a distant rumble from the impending storm reached his ears.

He turned back to Dick. "I have a question..."

At 2:47 that afternoon, the tornado sirens announced the green sky's earlier prediction was, indeed, correct. In the backyard, those who could took refuge in the bushes, planters, or under proper refuge. The clothing on the line flapped wildly in the gale. Sue's blouse yelled at April; the girl took no notice of her mother's panic, gladly receiving the welts of the storm. April hoisted herself up on the wind's wings and disappeared into the driving rain. Sue turned to Jim, but he had his own hands full; the wind attacked him viciously. Slipping from his grasp, Sue's blouse flailed about perilously. Pain ripped through her thinnest places, and she gasped for air. Gordy couldn't stay on track; his mother clung tighter than ever to him. The rain threw pebble sized hail at them; he couldn't hold on to the rags of his mother any longer. He dared to look into the hollow that had become a gulley of frothing mocha, then he wished he hadn't. He couldn't see the russet of his mother anymore, and he felt shame tearing at him. He reached down to her, but he couldn't wrest himself free of his pins. Finally, Jim worked his way free and reached down into the murky waters to feel for Sue.

Dick glanced up, irritation set in his jaw. "Yea, Jim?"

Years of subverted and disparaged dreams coursed through Jim. His voice seemed to reverberate in the room. "You know, we are nothing more than sentient mannequins, posed for your success, and adorned with your self-aggrandizing mantras. Why won't you reach into who we are? Muddy yourselves with the work of men--the grimy places where we make freedom possible? I'll tell you why. Fear. The more we become, the more we shatter your panes of dominance. Far be it for a man to wear the raiment of individuality--no, you would have a man worsted of all traces of self; until, he is a mere shell."

Dick stared at him with eyes like copper buttons .

Jim took off his suit jacket and tie, as he balled them up, he said, "Not this man." He threw the wad of clothing into the trashcan; the last thing he remembered was Dick's frozen face, a testimony to the line that separated them.

The lights flickered on and off as the storm outside reached its maximum. Jim strode into his office, eyed the plaques, and decided the only thing worth taking were the pictures of his family, remnants of happier times. Grabbing the pictures, he headed out to his car. He passed by the suits who stared at him, as though he had proclaimed himself emperor and stitched his own reality. Jim straightened, unbuttoned the top two buttons, and strode out into the fury.

He could barely make out the shape of his old truck. Safe inside, he turned the key and listened to the old machine sputter the water out of its system. He drove the shuddering truck onto Spring Street, which was barely discernable from the rivers of water flowing down either side. He checked his watch, just enough time to purchase a lottery ticket. Perhaps, today would shift into the hope of tomorrow.

It took him nearly an hour to make the twenty minute drive home from the convenience store. Streams boiled across bridges, and the rain pushed against his truck in nearly horizontal sheets. He came home and found Sue at the table, clutching an icepack to her jaw. He couldn't tell if the water running freely down her face was a result of the rain or tears.

"What happened to you?" Jim crossed the room and kneeled next to her.

"She left. I told her not to go. She's out there in that mess. I went after her, but the car door flew open and knocked me to the ground."

Jim pulled her close and murmured, "She'll be okay. We all will."

He looked past her, through the aging windows, then chuckled.

Sue pulled back. "What's so funny?"

He nodded toward the window. "The laundry line finally gave up."

"Oh, no! Our clothes. What a hellish day." She shivered and stood up. "I'm going to change. Where's your suit jacket and tie?"

"Oh, I've traded them in." He grinned at the confusion evident on her face.

March winds boasted the strength to tear into the fragile parts of the property. The apple tree, buffeted by the wind, stood resolute. Another growing season had arrived, and she could feel life surging through her again. She watched as the man struggled against the wind to erect new, white laundry poles. By his side, the woman and boy held the pole steady. They seemed buoyant, ready to fly. The tree wondered about the missing girl; she knew all about the pain of releasing one's fruit before it was fully ripe. Wasn't much anyone could do about it but hope someone picked it up before the fruit turned bad.

That spring day brought new clothing to the line. Jim had traded his suits in for comfortable slacks and polo tops. Seems starting his own business had released him from the manacles of stamped expression. Sue tried on courage and found, although it was one size larger than her, it was roomy; she knew she could grow into it. Gordy stuck around and worked at his father's business; they watched basketball on Saturday's, but Gordy didn't seem resentful. He was still in the dressing room trying to fit his personality with a career. Soon, Sue would be hanging smaller clothes on the line; April was pregnant. At first, they were all shocked and dismayed. But Jim knew they would survive; storms can heal, if you dirty yourself in the rubble.

In that rubble is the shape of strength--the pattern of freedom.

© Copyright 2006 K. Jergens

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