Darry
I set the mound of dirty laundry on the bathroom counter beside the sink, filling it with cold water. I then began to scrub them with a bar of orange soap. I didn't have to work till eleven on Monday mornings. It was only seven-thirty.
Grass stains. Soda's jeans are always covered in grass stains and oil. The most difficult junk to get out of denim. And Pony always had things in his pockets, and holes in his knees. He needed new ones anyway. All the ones he had hung off him.
I bit my lip. Stop thinking about them, Daryl! My mind yelled at myself. It didn't help.
I hate laundry. Really do. No wonder I always made Pony or Soda do it. It's boring. And your hands get cold. And there's only one black sock here.
"This is so stupid." I looked around, seeing if I had dropped the darn sock. Nope. Not on the ground. Probably in their room. I didn't want to go into their room, so I tossed it into the bathtub.
Soon I was finished with the colored junk. I walked into my room, grabbing a bunch of hangers. Then I hung them over the bathtub on a piece of piping. They looked like shit. No wonder I was constantly ironing. We needed to get a clothes line.
I looked at my clock. Eight-thirty. Great.
I pulled the bottle of bleach from in under the counter and dumped a cup of it into the water. He then got the white stuff - - mostly T-shirts and a few pairs of briefs. He dumped them all in, and started to swish them around. The bleach got into a cut on left palm hand.
"Shit." I murmured, going to suck on it, then stopping in the nick of time. All I needed was bleach in my system. "No wonder Soda's always wearing gloves when he's doing this."
I didn't care that I sounded like a huge-ass idiot, talking to an empty room in an empty house. Two-bit was at school, Steve at work, where Soda would be too. ""Wonder how Soda's doing. . . . probably all happy-go-lucky so nobody'd know he's worried. . . .Pony's at a new school, one up in Windrixville. At least there's no gangs up there. No jumping. They're too corn-pokey to think of anything by hay-rides and cow parades. Farmers. . ."
I shook my head. I was running out of things to do, to distract myself with. I"ve mopped, I've done every dish in the house twice. Cleaned the fridge. My room was spotless. Fixed one of the table that got busted when Soda and Steve were playing cards and got into a fight on top of it. That was funny.
Not in the mood for TV.
My eyes looked at the door across the hall. Pony and Soda's room. I shrugged, grabbing the laundry basket and entering it. Gosh, they were messy, those two. I cold hardly see the floor. Pony's side of the double bed, which was next to the window, had clothes, tons of sketches and pages of writing, books. Soda's side had soda cans, plates, DX t-shirts. Rodeo gear, and. . . a piece of an engine? The cot that actually belonged to Pony that hadn't been used since Mom and Dad's funeral was stacked three feet high with junk. Glory, I should get after them to clean their room more often.
I started tossing laundry into the basket. God, there was a lot of it. I opened the closet. There wasn't much in there. But the first think I saw, on Pony's side ( I could tell because it was actually somewhat neat and had books.) was a picture frame laying face down. I picked it up.
My breathing hitched; a picture of Mom and Dad. It was pretty old. The frame was homemade. He had carved horses into it. I swallowed, and placed it faced down again. God, I didn't need that. Not another something to get upset about.
Soda's half of the room was a lot easier then Pony's, for Pony's side had him written all over it. The sketches, the writing. I realized they were journal entries. I didn't read them, just making a stack and stuffing them into his night stand. The sketches I tacked to the wall over the old wooden desk. The books I stacked into a armoire/bookcase kind of thing Dad had made him when he was about five.
Changing the sheets. They were filthy. And they smelled like them. Another reminder. I made the bed, put a pillow on each side of the bed. put the engine part and the rodeo gear in the closet. Most the clothes in the basket, some in the closet. The floor needed to be swept and dry-mopped. I felt like crying, so I left the room. And left the house.
I was going to work, even though I was still two hours early.
I set the mound of dirty laundry on the bathroom counter beside the sink, filling it with cold water. I then began to scrub them with a bar of orange soap. I didn't have to work till eleven on Monday mornings. It was only seven-thirty.
Grass stains. Soda's jeans are always covered in grass stains and oil. The most difficult junk to get out of denim. And Pony always had things in his pockets, and holes in his knees. He needed new ones anyway. All the ones he had hung off him.
I bit my lip. Stop thinking about them, Daryl! My mind yelled at myself. It didn't help.
I hate laundry. Really do. No wonder I always made Pony or Soda do it. It's boring. And your hands get cold. And there's only one black sock here.
"This is so stupid." I looked around, seeing if I had dropped the darn sock. Nope. Not on the ground. Probably in their room. I didn't want to go into their room, so I tossed it into the bathtub.
Soon I was finished with the colored junk. I walked into my room, grabbing a bunch of hangers. Then I hung them over the bathtub on a piece of piping. They looked like shit. No wonder I was constantly ironing. We needed to get a clothes line.
I looked at my clock. Eight-thirty. Great.
I pulled the bottle of bleach from in under the counter and dumped a cup of it into the water. He then got the white stuff - - mostly T-shirts and a few pairs of briefs. He dumped them all in, and started to swish them around. The bleach got into a cut on left palm hand.
"Shit." I murmured, going to suck on it, then stopping in the nick of time. All I needed was bleach in my system. "No wonder Soda's always wearing gloves when he's doing this."
I didn't care that I sounded like a huge-ass idiot, talking to an empty room in an empty house. Two-bit was at school, Steve at work, where Soda would be too. ""Wonder how Soda's doing. . . . probably all happy-go-lucky so nobody'd know he's worried. . . .Pony's at a new school, one up in Windrixville. At least there's no gangs up there. No jumping. They're too corn-pokey to think of anything by hay-rides and cow parades. Farmers. . ."
I shook my head. I was running out of things to do, to distract myself with. I"ve mopped, I've done every dish in the house twice. Cleaned the fridge. My room was spotless. Fixed one of the table that got busted when Soda and Steve were playing cards and got into a fight on top of it. That was funny.
Not in the mood for TV.
My eyes looked at the door across the hall. Pony and Soda's room. I shrugged, grabbing the laundry basket and entering it. Gosh, they were messy, those two. I cold hardly see the floor. Pony's side of the double bed, which was next to the window, had clothes, tons of sketches and pages of writing, books. Soda's side had soda cans, plates, DX t-shirts. Rodeo gear, and. . . a piece of an engine? The cot that actually belonged to Pony that hadn't been used since Mom and Dad's funeral was stacked three feet high with junk. Glory, I should get after them to clean their room more often.
I started tossing laundry into the basket. God, there was a lot of it. I opened the closet. There wasn't much in there. But the first think I saw, on Pony's side ( I could tell because it was actually somewhat neat and had books.) was a picture frame laying face down. I picked it up.
My breathing hitched; a picture of Mom and Dad. It was pretty old. The frame was homemade. He had carved horses into it. I swallowed, and placed it faced down again. God, I didn't need that. Not another something to get upset about.
Soda's half of the room was a lot easier then Pony's, for Pony's side had him written all over it. The sketches, the writing. I realized they were journal entries. I didn't read them, just making a stack and stuffing them into his night stand. The sketches I tacked to the wall over the old wooden desk. The books I stacked into a armoire/bookcase kind of thing Dad had made him when he was about five.
Changing the sheets. They were filthy. And they smelled like them. Another reminder. I made the bed, put a pillow on each side of the bed. put the engine part and the rodeo gear in the closet. Most the clothes in the basket, some in the closet. The floor needed to be swept and dry-mopped. I felt like crying, so I left the room. And left the house.
I was going to work, even though I was still two hours early.