Throwing in the Towel
Wes cleans when he's anxious. ("If you love to clean so much, why do you live in a hotel with, you know, maid service?" Travis asks only rhetorically; he knows why Wes hasn't found somewhere else to call home.) Wes knows he isn't the only one who uses cleaning as a stress reducer. Surely plenty of people enjoy cleaning besides him. ("A lot of crazy people, maybe.") Wes knows that's not true because, despite what Travis says, there's something methodical about the routine of cleaning that should calm anyone down. ("Just you man, just you and the rest of Arkham.") Anyone can clean properly, with the right tools and enough time. It doesn't take any real skill and certainly doesn't require a great deal of preparation or any deep personal reflection. ("Wes, I've seen you. I've seen you contemplate Lemon Ultra Burst Fresh versus Lemony Xtra Fresh Burst. For hours, Wes, hours. How isn't that deep reflection?") Cleaning is a way to do something worthwhile when there's nothing else to be done…at least nothing to feasibly be done. ("You have to get over her sooner or later.") There's a purpose in the action even if the scrape of his fingernail against the tomato soup crusting on the edge of Travis' desk doesn't truly solve any of the problems that matter most in his life. ("How do you know I wasn't saving that," Travis' index finger waves haphazardly towards the reddish stain, "for later?")
Wes looks at the crusty red flakes beneath his fingernail. He should have used a rag instead; now he's going to have to clean his nails. ("You got a girl, don't you? Someone who regularly does your nails to get them that clean…") Wes knows he's only made more work for himself doing this by hand. ("I think the proper phrasing here is 'by nail', Wes.") He would have used a rag and some cleaner, but sometimes the strength of his nail picking directly on the stain makes it comes off easier. ("Or maybe you just like picking at things," Travis insists. "Can't let some chemical do the work for you; always have to do everything yourself.")
He looks up from his dirty nails to Travis' wide grin. Maybe he should have used a sponge. Then he could have thrown the wet blob at Travis when he was finished. ("You're still making more work for yourself, man. You'd have to pick that thing up afterwards. You'd know I never would and then you'd go insane watching it sit there beside my chair like dripping and making a puddle and all.")
He's going to need something to clean under his nails until he can see Denise next Thursday. ("I knew you had a girl. I completely called it.") Wes opens his desk drawer. It's perfectly clean, and pragmatically organized. There's no clutter at all. He knows what and where every single item is in that drawer. Wes knows he doesn't have a manicure kit in there. He shuffles everything around anyways and then pulls everything out of his desk. He crams it all back in and shuts the door. ("Counter intuitive much, Wes? It's like you want more shit to clean up after. Maybe I should just let myself really let go. This whole place could be a pig pen. You'd have anal retentive fun. I'd get to be lazy. It's a win-win…well for the both of us. I don't think the rest of the department would properly see the beauty in it.")
On second thought, Wes decides, cleaning is stressful. ("You're giving up? For real?" Travis asks.)
Wes edges towards the door. "I'm going home...I need to tip my maid."