Last Spring

The laundromat down the block has sock hops on the last Thursday of every month. There's about ten people who make it to most of them, but me and this girl Janine haven't missed any since the yellow flyer announcing the new tradition went up on all the telephone poles in the neighborhood, a year and a half ago. They flyered cars too. The mildewed paper is in sticky pieces all over my windshield; I forgot to take it off before I used the wipers one day, last spring.
Janine is this sort of plain brunette who alternates between pig and pony tails. I've learned surprisingly little about her, considering I've seen her at seventeen sock hops. She always does her laundry during the party. She uses the gentle cycle.
I've decided that tonight I'm gonna find some delicates at the bottom of my closet or wherever they may be hiding and bring them to the hop. I'll ask Janine if she wouldn't mind throwing them in with her wash—I'll contribute a few bucks—and maybe I'll get to talk to her a little. I don't know. Lately I've been thinking how sad it is that I see this girl so much and all we do is smile at each other across the row of dryers. She's shy. I can tell because whenever some guy comes up to flirt with her she runs her fingers through the holes in her laundry basket and looks back at the machine every few seconds. I decided a while ago that she comes every time thinking she should meet a nice man, but brings her laundry along in case she gets too nervous. I like to eat when I'm nervous at a party, but to each his or her own.
So I'm digging around my closet floor behind the dusty gym bags, watching the "Drew Carey Show" over my shoulder, when the phone rings. It's Derrick. He's been really low lately; just ended a thirteen-month relationship with this girl Denise because she's going to graduate school in England. I ask him how he is, he gives his usual "ok, I guess" before asking what I'm up to tonight. I'd made it a policy not to invite any friends to the sock hop up to this point. I thought of it as my time to get to know my neighbors, to bond and grumble about rent going up and how bad the courtyard between our buildings smells and what was that racket last night at two AM? Sounded like a dying elephant! Mostly, though, I sat on dryer number one while Bob or Joe or Nick talked about the latest James Bond movie or how they were looking at houses out in the suburbs—"when you hit 30, you and your missus will want the same thing, Charlie."
My buddies all know about the sock hops, so I don't need to explain the whole deal to Derrick. I invite him because I feel bad. I know he's been spending most nights lying on his couch flipping between reruns on Fox and the WB, considering thinking about reading or writing or making a nice diorama to send to Denise. He's taken up jogging, but only because he saw a movie, "Chongking Express", where a character goes jogging so he doesn't have any water left in his body for tears.
Derrick says ok, with an "uuuuhhhh" thrown in beforehand so he doesn't sound so desperate. I find this shiny blue shirt with gold buttons under a pair of sneakers I thought I'd thrown out during the Monica Lewinsky era. I remember buying the shirt, my dueling shirt I call it because that's what it looks like, because a girl told me I'd be her hero if I did. I think I wore it once.
I also find a pair of silk boxers that have Charlotte Hornets all over them. Very classy.
Derrick gets to my place in fifteen minutes, impressive unless he took a cab, which he does more often that he'd like to admit. He's clearly wearing cologne or after shave, and he's got a button-down shirt in his hand, "in case I get cold" he says. I turn off The Swan or Average Joe or...whatever's come on while I was one-upping Derrick with some after-shave, cologne, and Old Spice. The triple threat. I grab my dueling shirt and boxers, my excuses for talking to Janine, and we head out.
"Lookin' good," I say.
"Thanks. You too."
"Getting back on the wagon tonight, are we?"
"Well, last I checked, the old wagon capsized in the Atlantic." Derrick laughs a little. He always laughs at his own jokes. He's a funny guy though, so I can see how it'd be hard even for him to resist himself.
We get outside and it's not cold at all but Derrick puts on his shirt, buttons up, and fixes the collar. There's a woman in a black shirt in the laundromat window; her back is pressed against the glass. As we get closer I see the familiar glass bowl of punch by the cash register, red stains forming on the white cloth underneath. Larry, the owner, could get in a lot of trouble with the city if he or anyone else spiked the punch, but he looked the other way if people brought flasks and freshened their own drinks. I realize I forgot mine, but good old Derrick whips his out of his front pocket.
"Jack Daniels?" I ask.
"Bushmills. Tonight is special."
I open the door and the same Fifties' mix tape that Larry has used at every one of these things is playing once again. I don't know any of the songs except "In the Still of the Night" and "My Girl", but they all sound the same to me anyway. Temptations or Pips or whoever, they really know how to set the mood. Janine isn't here yet, just a few couples slow dancing by the rules and regulations poster and a guy in a green vest sitting on my usual dryer, smiling at his cup. Derrick looks at me like I'm a real loser for coming to these things for so long, but I let him know that the night is young and he has nothing better to do anyway.
Larry is standing guard by the punch, so I go over and shake his hand.
"How's business?"
"Well Charlie, not much change in supply and demand when it comes to laundry. It's a solid investment—you should think about getting in. That way I'd have more money and your mattress wouldn't have so many crumpled bills under it."
"Yea, I have been sleeping a little lopsided lately. If I get to the point where I'm begging for a chiropractor, I'll come to you instead. How's that?"
I look at Derrick. He's got his head against the vending machine, his hands locked behind his neck.
"Well, my friend's starting to go catatonic, so I better go revive him. Nice to see you, Larry." He's got one of the firmest handshakes I've ever experienced. Maybe that's why I'm always so eager to come over and make bad jokes with him.
I sit down next to Derrick and pat him on the shoulder, then take the flask out of his pocket and fix my punch.
"Charlie, I miss her." He shakes his head a little, like he's embarrassed to admit this.
"I know you do. But hey, there's plenty of girls out there for you. And in here even, for that matter. You just wait an hour."
"The last time we saw each other, I couldn't even touch her. I thought it would make things harder." He rips off a piece of his plastic cup and massages it between his thumb and forefinger. "But what I wouldn't give now just to hold her, just for one minute."
"But you know that after that minute you'd want more. And you'd be right back where you started."
"I know." He sits up. "Doesn't it bother you though, how nothing is ever enough?"
"Sometimes," I say, looking at the door because Janine's just walked in, guy with black-rimmed glasses holding her hand, no laundry basket in sight.