Somebody

I worked at The Lost Sock for six months before I started stealing from the lost and found. 

 

It was a pragmatic decision. I had no more space in the box and there was a new pleather vest to add to the pile. I could have gotten a second box, or a bigger box, but that just would have delayed the inevitable. No one came back to collect anything. Ever. Maybe leaving something at a laundromat was another way of throwing it out, like sneaking it in someone else's garbage can because yours was full. 

 

But the stuff wasn't garbage. There was a flip phone, a cashmere sweater, sequenced leggings, a gold wedding ring, a camouflage fanny pack, a magic 8 ball, a smorgasbord of foreign coins that were almost the same size as quarters but were not actually quarters, a pink vibrator, flannel pajamas, a peace sign crop top, a sari wrap, a Snuggie. 

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I didn't bother keeping the socks I found. Those went into the trash. The customer knew what kind of laundromat they were walking into. 

I knew at the time that helping myself to the lost and found was wrong, but it felt like the lowest level of stealing, right up there with taking a cookie before it had completely cooled. 

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Besides whoever left it obviously didn't need it. They were getting by doing their laundry once, sometimes twice a week, oblivious of its absence while it sat here collecting dust. And I needed it. All of it. 

I was in a bad place. No one wants to be working at a laundromat. It just happens. Like a sneeze. 

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I graduated over a year ago with a bachelor’s degree in English literature from NYU. I was ready to be the next great American novelist. 

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The problem was that I had nothing to say and no way to pay rent. I spent days in my apartment staring at a blank piece of paper waiting for my big ah-ha moment. I could be patient, I could wait. But when I started waiting around for the donut shop down the street to close just to collect the trash bag full of day-old donuts from the dumpster, I realized I needed a job. 

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I saw the want ad for the night shift at the laundromat hanging in the window while I was walking home from dumpster diving and decided that I couldn't become a famous writer without food or shelter. Achoo. 

 

The way I saw it, it would be easy money. I just needed to be physically present for the job, but I could use all the time in between vacuuming out the lint traps and refilling the detergent dispensers on my writing. Lots of great writers had terrible jobs. Stephen King was a high school janitor. Douglas Adams was a Bodyguard for a Qatari oil tycoon family. I could work at a laundromat. 

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I could see it clearly. I would be interviewed on The Late Show. How did you come up with your story? I've never read anything like it. I would smile meekly (because no one likes a gloater) and tell everyone that I wrote it in the middle of the night at the laundromat. The audience would clap, amazed at my humble beginning. Sometimes I would sleep in the employee bathroom with my paper and pencil stuck to my face. Thunderous applause. 

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I knew exactly what I would do when I was famous too. I'd pay off my student loans in cash. I would host charity events with B-list celebrities. I'd post my opinions on topics I knew nothing about on social media and total strangers would take my advice. 

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And in my penthouse overlooking the city, I'd have a quiet writing nook where I could pause and think fondly back on the simple times when all I needed to be happy was a notepad, a pencil, and the rhythmic sound of plastic buttons slamming against the dryer door.

I just needed one big idea. 

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But it turns out that using a coat hanger to scrape gum off the floor didn't inspire anything in me. Most days I couldn't bring myself to read. Every printed word inspired jealousy. I just stared out the window into the night until someone told me they couldn't get their clothes because the door was jammed. If I was feeling ambitious, I would check the manual to see what was wrong. Once I even tried to jiggle a machine. But usually, I just gave them a complaint form to fill out and let them leave it on my desk so the day shift person could deal with it. 

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Not writing anything for weeks on end was very tiring. My parents kept calling and asking me how my novel was going. They wanted to be supportive, engaged. I said just enough to stall the conversation indefinitely. It's a creative process. I'm editing. I've made connections. What's the story about? I won't bore you with the details, but it's really different. 

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The less I said and the less frequently I said it, the better. I was a terrible liar, and I was always a sentence away from breaking down. 

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I'll get back to you. Don't worry. No, I don't need anything. I'm fine, I'm just busy. 

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One night during my shift I reached down for the magic 8 ball and shook it hard. Am I going to be stuck here forever? 

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My sources say no bubbled up through the blue goo. 

 

And that is when I met my husband, Alex. 

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I fished out the gold wedding ring from the box. Alex was engraved on the inside of the band and a date, October 14, 1988. Our wedding anniversary date? No, that would make him too old for me. His birthday. My husband Alex's birthday. 

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I tried it on. The ring was loose, so I wore it on my index finger. I looked at it like it was someone else's hand. It felt heavier. My whole attention was focused on the ring. I spent the early morning watching the sun hit the band just so I could watch it glisten. 

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I didn't go home to sleep on my couch while watching reruns of Judge Judy like I normally did. For the first time in months, I felt the urge to explore and took a walk. 

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I moved through town, hands forward. Strangers suddenly smiled at me, as if the ring vouched in some way for my sanity. Alex gave me credibility, a sense of belonging. 

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I wanted to be a part of the action, however small. I helped tourists find their way to the Statue of Liberty and Times Square. I dragged my ringed finger methodically across their maps as if I was reading to a child who was seeing the words for the first time. Go here, turn left. Have fun, this is an amazing town! 

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I walked to a new pop-up coffee shop and wrapped my fingers around the white ceramic mug, letting the cup support my hands increased weight. I made eye contact with every man in the shop just long enough for them to feel noticed. I pretended that I recognized them from somewhere. Once I had their attention, I lifted my coffee, delicately taking a sip and flashing the wedding band at eye level, waiting for them to see that I was the one that got away. One man looked flattered, the other confused, one had a flash of disappointment, but they all looked. 

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I came home drunk on love and slept in my bed for the first time in months. 

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The next day after my shift I found an empty baby carriage on the street. It was a toddler's stroller. The seat was covered in a fine layer of cookie crumbs and spit stains. There was a chewable version of The Very Hungry Caterpillar attached to the arm rest. 

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I took a deep breath. It was time to take my relationship with Alex to the next level. 

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I unlocked the stroller break and walked quickly away from the laundromat towards the park. I felt the primal urge to rush. Mothers with strollers were always in a hurry. I needed to keep up appearances if I didn't want to attract attention. This time when tourists asked me for help, I looked at them apologetically. I'm sorry I'm on my way to pick up my kid from kindergarten, or day care, or the grandparents’ house, or from a play date where they were dressed up as dinosaur pirates because they could decide which one was cooler. 

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There was a child somewhere waiting for me, who needed me to pour milk in their cereal and tell them stories. I felt extremely important. 

 

When I arrived, I looked around at the park with the eyes of a parent. I saw the easily swallowable stones, looked for the closest public restroom just in case, checked my pockets for snacks and hand sanitizer. I saw my child's stuff everywhere. A discarded pacifier, a baby bottle, a doll missing an arm. I put everything in the shopping basket below the stroller seat. 

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A woman came up to me and asked if I had dropped a teething ring. I was embarrassed. Yes, sorry, it is all just, everywhere. 

 

My daughter is the same way, don't worry. It gets easier. 

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I thanked her and put it in the stroller basket and moved quickly to the other side of the park. I wanted to be alone, take in the stillness of the decorative reflecting pool. Looking in the water I thought only cosmic thoughts. Life had changed so much since I had met Alex. 

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I walked home, did some pelvic training exercises on a yoga mat, and fell asleep on the floor wrapped in a Snuggie. 

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The next day I needed to break free of the emotional weight of my suburban life. After work, I took the peace sign crop top and a handful of euros and went towards Midtown. As I walked, I stopped to take off the shackles of oppression. I left my shoes and socks by the side of the road. I gave my jean jacket to a homeless woman. I walked by a flower shop, grabbed a daisy, and ate it. I was Mother Earth. 

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I went to a bodega and tried to buy an organic hummus wrap with the euros. The man laughed and said these won't work here. Do you have any American money? I shook my head. The man was bemused. I'm traveling to Greece soon. I'll take this as an exception, ok? Where are you from? 

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I just smiled and waved as I walked away, taking a big bite of hummus. 

 

I saw a poodle waiting outside the shop with its leash wrapped around bicycle rack. I unclipped the dog from its collar. Break your chains little one, be free! The dog scurried away. There was yelling from inside the bodega, but I didn't stick around long enough to find out what all the commotion was about. 

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I laid down on the grass, soaking in the sun. This was the point of everything. I no longer felt lost. Now every day I am somebody, just not who I expected to be.