Disclaimer: I will never admit to writing this . .
. Oh yeah, I don't own them.
Title: This Makes No Sense Whatsoever
Author: gilenagile . . . some other one, not me
Rating: PG-13
Episode Reference: Takes place after Camera
Feedback: Only if you don't want to hit me with a
blunt object: gilenagile@hotmail.com
This Makes No Sense Whatsoever
Chapter 1: Fluff
It was a dark and stormy night—and if it hadn't been he would have gotten the hell out of there. As it was he was trapped, row upon row of metallic monsters, mouths gaping open, staring back at him. It was like a scene from a bad science fiction movie, he could see the blurb now: "Man against machine--man doesn't do so good."
"Logan, pay attention. You'll only get one shot at this."
Max was with him—she knew what she was doing. He lifted an eyebrow, smiled smugly at his adversaries, and scooted the chair around toward her. A final look over his shoulder, I'll be baack.
"If you miss the rinse cycle you won't be able to add the fabric softner." She was leaning against the washing machine, her hips just so, looking like an auto show model draped over a Ferrari. He didn't care how much it cost, he was buying—throw in the extra cup holders while you're at it.
His stupid smile faded. If he actually had any money, he wouldn't be spending his Friday night at Super Suds Laundromat with genetically designed perfection. No, he'd be cooking it something French and hard to pronounce, and plying it with a nice chilled chardonnay.
"Hey! Maybe you're sitting too close to those dryers, your brain appears to be fried."
Lesson one: pay attention when Max speaks. If only her mouth wasn't attached to that gorgeous body it wouldn't be so difficult. But even that mouth alone . . . He was finding it hard to focus. Maybe he was coming down with something, or it could be the fumes from the duffel bag of dirty laundry sitting on his lap. His most hated cliché came to mind: you don't miss money until you don't have any.
Well, it wasn't really the money he missed it was the little lady it had paid to take care of inconveniences like dust, and soap scum, and dirty socks. He stifled a sigh; no use crying over spilled millions of dollars, at least not in front of Max. He doubted she would be sympathetic to the fact that his oodles of dinero had sheltered him from mindless tasks like laundry for thirty some years.
"You got it? Put clothes in washer, fill detergent dispenser, select one of five cycles, add fabric softner during final rinse."
Well, maybe this wasn't as mindless as he'd thought.
He flashed her a disarmingly confident smile, thankful that capitalism hadn't gone under before his orthodontic treatments had been paid for. He would bluff, he was an excellent bluffer, especially when it came to himself.
He waited until Max was busy with her own wash, before selecting a machine at the far end of the row and dumping the contents of the bag into it. Hastily he slammed the lid shut hoping the aroma hadn't had time to travel to her genetically enhanced nostrils. Sometimes he really hated Manticore perfection.
Cycle selection, detergent . . . ok why wasn't the stupid thing working. Max's was purring like a kitten.
"Coins Logan."
One disarmingly confident laugh to the rescue, I knew that. Damn—he'd hoped the quarters were for video games. He suspected the cycle—hey, he was learning the lingo—would take a while. He looked around, just as he thought, nothing to do. Max was sitting on top of her washer reading a magazine—atta girl show it who's boss. That position wasn't a requirement he hoped, it would take a lot of maneuvering on his part . . . no Max would have mentioned it. He was suddenly glad he had heeded lesson one.
What to do . . . he wheeled to the pile of magazines set on a rickety table in the corner, maybe he could find an interesting article or two: "How to Drive Your Man Wild in Bed," "Six Naughty Ways to Satisfy Your Special Someone," "Explore the Geography of the G-spot Together." Good grief, decadent filth like this shouldn't be left lying around—maybe Max could take some of it home with her.
He moved on to the notice board. If he tilted his head back 60 degrees and squinted he could just about read the bottom row of tattered papers: "WANTED: handy man, services urgently required, equipment must be in good working order." This place was a den of iniquity. He had no idea what he had been missing all this time. But Max had been frequenting Laundromats for years . . . he wheeled toward her. She'd better damn well be reading National Geographic.
"Would you stop prowling."
"I don't prowl." Oh, good comeback--hope that one didn't make her fall off her perch. "I scoot." Even better—whatcha going to do for an encore, topple into one of those industrial size washers? Man, look at those babies. He scooted—very gracefully, even if he did think so himself—over to the line of gleaming giants. Bet you could get a whole year's worth of dirty clothes into one of those—he gulped, stunned by his own genius. No, wait . . . 365 times two dirty socks, the neighbors would have moved out by then.
"Want some Snuggle?"
He almost did topple in. "What?" Not in his wildest dreams had he thought up this particular scenario—but, what the heck, if she was willing . . .
"Fabric softner." She held out the bottle. He scooted back toward her—considerably less gracefully.
Four collisions later—he had no idea washing machines were made of the hardest metal know to man—he was staring at his particular washer. The water was filling up; it had to be the final rinse—but final . . . that implied previous. How was a guy to know if this was the final one? Sweat began to bead on his forehead—keep cool, keep cool--bluff. She was watching him. He could feel it. Don't look at her lad, good dental work won't help you now, just act confident. He lifted the lid and poured the liquid in—damn he was good, hand steady as a rock.
"You're a complete idiot."
That wasn't the correct response. Now he was getting upset. He'd followed her instructions exactly—hadn't he? That deserved some measure of respect—oops, maybe the whole bottle wasn't required. Turn, smile, don't crash into anything.
***
She was wearing down, he could tell. "Now you put the wet clothes in the dryer, IN-THE-DRYER." She handed him the basket of soggy garments. He prowled over to the wall of gaping machines. Wait a minute, . . . they had holes in the front--big ones—wouldn't everything fall out? He tottered in confusion, not an easy thing to do in a wheelchair.
"Here," he thrust the basket back at her "you do it. I've got to go . . . " think, you idiot . . . think, "go get some . . . Snuggle." And go drown himself in the nearest Maytag while he was at it.
***
Everything was under control. Yes, that refreshing dunk in the restroom sink had done him the world of good. He found his eyes were making involuntary revolutions with the contents of the dryers in front of him. Under control . . . under control . . . it was hypnotic—he was surprised the CIA hadn't been utilizing these things for years. T-shirt, sock, underwear, I confess.
He was loosing it. Why didn't she just take him home . . . now. His head was joining his eyes in their revolutions. He was getting dizzy. Focus, focus you fool, before you end up in a basket yourself. T-shirt, sock, woman's under garment . . . suddenly he was feeling a lot more alert. It was black--wait for the next rotation . . . wait for it—black and lacey. He felt so much better. If only they had shared a dryer, their socks dancing together, T-shirts touching, boxers and--he squinted—thongs (YES! There was a God) intertwined.
"You OK?"
Don't say a word. She can't make you. Confession is not good for the continuation of life as you know it.
"I'm fine." Disarming grin to the rescue—yes he was feeling much better. "I was thinking maybe we could . . . "—snuggle-- "grab a cup of coffee on the way home."
She flashed a brilliant smile in his direction. He admired her dental work—perfection.
They folded their clothes in companionable silence. All of his seemed to have turned the same shade of dirty gray—interesting.
"See . . . that wasn't so bad was it?"
Not bad. Traumatic. "No, of course not. It was really nice of you to help. Thongs . . . I mean thanks . . . " He looked around frantically for a live outlet he could insert his brain into. He was never going to do laundry again—to hell with the neighbors.
I was thinking this could be the first chapter in a multi-part series . . . "Fluff" . . . "More Fluff" . . . "Even More Fluff" . . . eventually ending up with say . . . "Lint"—get the idea? Or I could just go get a lobotomy now. Let me know what you think.