Page 12 of Hot Doggin'
“Who the fuck are you? Like you’ve ever baked fucking sourdough bread. Where did you get that shit from?”
“Betty Beasley.”
I roll my eyes. Of course. Everything she says is gospel to him. “What’s in your box?”
“Also my truck and bike keys and helmet, like in yours. The flag from my buddy’s funeral. My mama’s sewing box, and my hot dog blanket.” I grin when he mentions the damn blanket. “Do you think I can fit the blanket in the box with the sewing kit? Maybe I need a bigger box.”
“You can wrap the blanket around your shoulders if it doesn’t fit in the box.”
“Good thinking.”
“What’s with the sewing kit?”
“It belonged to my mom. I don’t know,” he shrugs, glancing at me. “It brings back good memories of her. She used to keep it next to her chair, and she would fix the holes in my pants, the holes in the couch, the holes in our towels?—”
“How about the holes in your head?”
He laughs. “Yeah, whatever. My point is, it all fits in one box. That’s all you need,” he insists, slapping my arm. But as the miles pass, I stay quiet, and McCormick can’t let it go. “It’s still bothering you?”
“I don’t know, I just feel like… I’m thirty-four?—”
“Thirty-six,” he corrects.
“Bite me. I feel like I have nothing to show for it. Like my lack of possessions are a measure of my success.”
“That’s fucking bullshit. First of all, it’s how we were taught. We’re soldiers. We’ve moved God knows how many times, and we had to pack light and live light. Everything we had fit in a box, and that box traveled with us overseas and to who knows how many bases. That's just how it was. It’s what we’re used to. And second of all, we’re super successful!”
I choke on my snort. “How do you figure?”
“Are you kidding me? Dude, we have no real responsibilities, money in the bank from our disabilities, sweet rides, and great friends. You like your job well enough, and I don’t really have one. We live a charmed life.”
“You think so? Is that really how you see it?” How does he reduce every problem to its lowest common denominator?
“You don’t?” His bushy red brows meet his bushy red hairline.
“I don’t know, I guess so.”
“What are you, lonely or some shit? Is that what this is about?”
Is it? Where does he get theseYoda-like insights from? “Maybe.”
“Please,” he chuffs, slapping me again. “You’ve gotme. You don’t have time to be lonely.“
Isn’t that the truth!
We pull up and park in front of the laundromat and climb out of the cab. It’s one of the nicer ones in town, located in a strip mall next to a yoga studio, a nail salon, a Starbucks, and a dentist's office. I don’t much care either way, it’s just the closest one to my house. The plus is that the machines are usually in working order, whereas the more affordable one near McCormick’s place can’t guarantee that. Their shit is always broken.
I grab my sack from the bed of the truck and follow McCormick inside. He slips a couple of quarters in the machine closest to the sitting area. It’s just some plastic chairs, Formica-topped tables, and a vending machine. I dump my clothes in and toss the bag in the trash can.
“What are we gonna take them home in?” I ask.
“Shit, I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
He rarely does. “I guess we’ll just fold them and stuff them in the box.”
“That’ll work.” I didn’t bring soap or anything with me, so I dig some change out of my wallet and buy some single-use packets from the dispenser on the wall. When my infested clothes are sudsy and spinning round and round, I grab a seatnext to McCormick, mimicking his pose—Arms crossed, legs spread. Resting bitch face activated.
My gaze touches on everyone and everything, taking in my surroundings. After eight years in the Army, it’s instinct. A woman two machines down from mine stuffs an unusual amount of panties in the washer. Strangely, they all look alike.
