Parallel Universes

Parallel Universes by Timothy J. Dewey
copyright 2005

“I would stay with the parallel universe theory myself.” She says to me. All I can hear is a low hum as I watch the little barbell she has thru her bottom lip.
“Your other sock is in a parallel universe, with another you… and me, in a Laundromat. He gets the pair of socks this time. “Next time you may end up with the one your missing and he will be out of luck.” She raises her brow at the thought of it and nods to herself.
“What?” I am perplexed. She is like what, twenty years younger than me. I have business cards in my wallet that are older than her. Fascinating.
“Hey, are you going to use that basket?” She motions to my remaining underwear in the roll-around basket and then to the set of dryers where her clothes have settled in a warm heap at the bottom of the drum.
“Oh, hey, not a problem.” I grab what was left of my dignity and my old underwear and sock then push the cart her way. I make quick work of folding the garments and then shove them into the laundry bag from whence they came. Fascinating. Black hair, black eyeliner, that little barbell thingy, those Capri pants with no pockets… a cut off t-shirt. And she did this with-out realizing the gravity of the situation. I fall in love at the drop of a hat.
I look around the Soap and Suds and see most of the same familiar faces. The old black guy that has never spoken to me nods when we make eye contact. He gives me a little wink and his eyes dart to the girl unloading her panties and tops from the dryer. He seems to be drawing the same enjoyment from the moment as I am.
There are always kids running around this place, but never seems to be a parent that will take credit for these errant bags of mismanaged energy. There is a tired housewife that I see in here every other day. She looks beat, like she woke up at three a.m. to come down here and do her laundry. Although I don’t see any adult laundry in the three loads she is doing, just kids stuff, dirty as hell and unending. The kids are hers, but I get the impression she wouldn’t take responsibility for them unless they burst into flame. The television mounted to the ceiling in the corner is playing The Price is Right. Mrs. Fava is trying to hear what he is saying about the washer and dryer set. She blurts out the price just before he has his girls turn the card over. Mrs. Fava knows an awful lot about the price of washers and dryers for not owning a set.
“Hey, will you help me fold some of this before it gets wrinkled?” Barbell smiles so sweetly that I almost wet my pants.
“No problem.” I grab a handful of clothes from the basket and put them up on the folding table. I see my hand shake as I come up with a small pair of panties.
“How do you fold something this small?” I try to sound uninterested in the fact that I am holding something that she will be slipping into at some point in time in a very private moment, and that I would mortgage my home if I had one just to be there.
“Just put those in a pile and I will put them in on top when I have everything else folded.” She grabs a handful of panties and hands them to me to put in my pile. I feel strangely honored.
“You know, that parallel universe theory is not so far off.” She stops and looks at me, “I don’t even know your name.”
“Aaron.” I was already standing, so I gave a little bow, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Alice.” She reached out a small pink hand and I took it. It was warm.
“Alice. You don’t hear that name too much any more.” I have never been much of a conversationalist. Not around the table at Thanksgiving with people I have known my whole life, and not here in the Soap and Suds with a girl’s underwear in my hands.
“My friends say I am an old soul.” She kind of babbles on about that, but I just hear a kind of happy buzzing. I try not to look too obvious, but I am elated that we have become so familiar.
“But anyway, that parallel universe thing. Did you know that one of those theories is that everything that can happen does happen?” She speeds up her folding, grabbing tops and pants, and pairs of socks. I have to take part of her pile just to have something to do. I work much slower, not wanting to the moment to end.
“So the closest possibilities that parallel our own might have our alternate selves grabbing a sock out of the dryer that might not belong there, but with us in their parallel universe.”
She stops talking.
“Are you listening to me, or am I just boring you?”
“That would be an impossibility, my dear.” I shake a pair of her pants out. “Do you want me to match up the seams, or just fold them in half?”

“I don’t really care. Match up the seams, I guess.”
It takes me a moment, even in my forty-five year old mind, to realize that I might have an “in” with her conversation.
“So you are saying that there are two of us in a parallel universe? That there is another me folding your underwear and socks?”
“Yeah, trippy isn’t it.”
As we speak, one of the little kids grabs our dryer cart and another leaps inside. It is a race around the outer perimeter, and the inevitable crash at the end that culminates in a spanking for both, and a noggin bruise on hapless rider.
“Wow, that must have hurt.” Alice gestures to the kid bawling in his plastic row-chair, rubbing the bump on his head. Just another distraction to my hastily thought of plan.
“So in this parallel universe the other two of us may go to the bar and get a beer, or go out for a bite to eat or something?” I try not to sound like an idiot, but I hear the words as they come out of my mouth and there is no taking them back.
She doesn’t say anything. I am crushed. Just when I think it is all over, she smiles at me.

“Yeah, he helps her get her laundry home to her house and they share a bottle of wine. Then he offers to take her to dinner at that Italian place down at the end of the street.”
“He would be honored.” I say back, hoping we are actually going somewhere. I stand and gather her clothing, handing it to her as she places it in her laundry bag. When it is full she hands it to me and I sling both hers and mine over my shoulder.
She leads the way to the exit, those Capri pants guide me out the door and down the sidewalk. I feel like I have just skipped last period in high school to go and kiss under the bleachers with this girl. We make quick work of the two blocks to her apartment building.
Up the stairs to the second floor, she opens the door to what looks like the Amazon rain forest. “I like plants.” She reports, “It’s… like cool to have this life force all around you.”
I think mosquitoes, or monkeys, or some little guy wearing a mud flap and carrying a spear. “Nice,” is all I come up with.

She disappears for the moment between what look like a a couple of banana trees with those huge fronds and I am left alone. Near the window there is a small couch. There is no television or radio. Just a bookcase with a lot of travel books, some dog-eared paperbacks, a copy of “On the Road” by Kerouac.
“So, what do you do for fun around here, Alice.” What an un-smooth thing to say. I instantly regretted having opened my mouth. Maybe she didn’t hear me.
“Drink wine and talk, mostly. And I like to curl up naked on that couch with a cup of tea and a book now and then.” The voice came from behind a few potted trees and shrubs, from the kitchen I assumed from the sound of clinking stemware. She emerged from behind a large fern with a bottle of wine and two clean glasses.
I was glad that I was relaxing on a piece of furniture that she read naked on, and happy that I hadn’t had her come to my house, which was really only a studio apartment. More like a phone booth with it’s own bathroom. Instead of plants on display, there is my clothing in large piles; those that are clean, and those that are going to be clean. The dishes are the same way. I am sure that she would probably go outside to use the bathroom rather than chance using mine. But that was neither here nor there seeing that we were here in the beautiful jungle of her apartment.

The wine goes down amid a waterfall of conversation, all from her with me nodding at key points, sipping my wine instead of talking. Unfortunately that has me drinking much more than she does and that doesn’t fit into my loosely knit plan that has me getting her drunk. Not necessarily to take advantage of her, but make me look just that much more appealing to her, if I that is possible.

The rest of the evening was unforgettable… I can only hope. I wake up on the small couch by the window tossed about in a warm comforter. I am only wearing my shirt. No socks, no pants… no underwear. I sported a manly smile. Obviously I had done myself proud.
I call for her, but Alice is gone. There is a note on the table next to me. I pick the page up… the stationary had little moons and stars on it. It was so her. I think I am in love.
The note said that my pants and underwear were probably dry by now! My dignity and everything else shrivels on the vine. I withdraw into my shell and slink off the couch like a dog who had pissed in the house instead of going outside. Oh my god, I think to myself as I followed the sound of the dryer through the flora and fauna.

In the small laundry alcove, I find my pants and underwear, warm and tumbled. I give the pants a sniff to see if I had spilled my wine… or had something most certainly more embarrassing transpire. Nothing but the fresh smell of fabric softener.
I stand to put them on and see myself in the mirror. I have a hickey on my neck. This is a good sign. I check the rest of my body to see if there are any tell tale marks, but that is it. Whatever happened, it was after the hickey.
My socks and shoes are still missing in action. I make my way through the living room and find a hallway on the opposite side from the washer and dryer. There is the bathroom at the end of the hall, gratefully it is a familiar sight. I find my shoes and socks in there, why I left them there I don’t recall. Outside the door and to the left is Alice’s bedroom. It doesn’t look familiar at all.
I was busy jumping about on one foot as I put my other shoe on when I spied the second page of her note. It must have slipped to the floor and under the couch when I picked up the first page.

My heart skips a beat when I read what had happened. I was great last night and she couldn’t wait for this evening. We never made it to dinner, so she would meet me at the Italian place at 7 o’clock. We drank wine and talked for hours, and then made passionate love on the couch. And I ate hummis. She was sorry about the champagne and hoped my nuts were all right. Funny, they didn’t hurt at all.