Before the deluge

Maybe the picture of somebody you were hoping I might be. Jackson Browne could be heard on Saturday afternoons, I would leave him mid- sentence closing behind me the door which at some later point garnered a slide police lock. In my fidgety kid hands, quarters clashed together in time to the music that I would continue to sing as I ran down the steps and out the two glass doors that exited our complex on Winthrop Road. Looking through some photographs I found inside a drawer I was taken by a photograph of you. The etched brass metal cup that housed the quarters would be less one, a sneaky candy bar purchase come Monday morning, so much for Sunday dessert day. The walk way between the buildings was worn by footsteps on laundry day; I imagined my left hand was the only one that pulled a waxy leaf from the bush at the end of the path before skipping up the next set of steps. Shit, I forgot my keys, she’s going to kill me, let’s hope she doesn’t search my pocket and discover my one too many. Back to the bush, rip, scuffle here scuffle there wearing my own discernible path and up the three steps into the foyer. The Buzzer read Goggin, my finger depressed sure it would go unnoticed because of Browne. I know now she expected it and waited, annoyance the most relevant part of me. “I forgot my keys Ma”
BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
Jumping two steps now, anxiety in my legs. But the angels are older. In and out as quick as Santa Claus. The room in the building next door was where Anne’s apartment was in ours. Every time I entered, the storage closets scared me, the giant particle wood boards stained mahogany, locks dangling, mysteries I would never solve. I walked to the left by the pipes and fuse boxes, looked beyond them to be sure I was not alone in the laundry room with my rapist or killer. The room smelled of fabric softener and mildew, the heat from the boiler infusing the both into a dense perfume, I didn’t want to die to that smell. I fidgeted the locks for good measure and sang out loud, “Well we come to the place where the road and the sky collide” pulling our wet clothes from the industrial washer sides. The door to the dryer tried to close as I hotwired realityyyyyy. I hate laundry day, I thought it every time, a flat Mickey Mouse smiling at me from the light blue background of my sweatshirt. Humph you were always dancing in and out of view.
The quarters stood in slots, 25 cents per ten minutes, the load was heavy so I slipped another from my black corduroy pocket, the ones with the white piping up the side, circa 1982. I pushed hard with my palm and watched candy bars disappear from my future, victims to the hum of churning.
Sometimes we forget we love each other and fight for no reason.