Dirty Laundry

There are two crumpled little socks lying on my concrete floor, lavender stripes with red cherries, ground with school yard dirt that will never wash out. I can't seem to take them away from their resting place, where they were haphazardly dropped almost a week ago now. I look at them often.

I had dinner last night in a fuschia suede booth. I ate a calamari sandwich, served with a side of spicy green beans. At the table next to us were two women sitting with two older men, no one in the group seemed to know each other very well. Every time the men would leave the table to smoke, or use the washroom, which was often, the women would lean over, towards my guest and I, and inquire about our meal. The brunette, she had the spicy beans too, and an open paneled black dress with crisscross spaghetti straps that exposed her back. Her name was Rose. My guest and I drank 7$ gin fizzes, we drank a lot of fizz. I found myself staring across the table at Rose more often than I should have, but she didn't seem to mind. As the dinner progressed through its courses, I achieved a level of intoxication that made the prospect of Rose and I falling in love possible. So when I heard her discussing the club that they were going to be heading off to after dinner, I couldn't help myself when I announced, across our table, that we too would be attending the same bar.

Despite Rose's warning of a busy club, and the assurance that if we waited until they were ready to leave she would get us past the door staff, my friend and I, for some reason, left the restaurant early. We put the top down on our convertible roadster and tore through the summer night, the long and wide Burrard Street bridge feeding us into the lights of the city skyline like a gray star ship being pulled into the tracking beam of the death star. We parked, and waited, in line.

There were three line ups, each associated with its own level of night time stature. The first, wasn't really a line at all, instead it was a moment for pause, where the door man could look you over, and decide whether or not you were worthy enough to cross the red velvet barrier he so effortlessly maneuvered, back and forth, from its post. The second, was without doubt a line, but a more important port of entry, generally it was where people were sent if they didn't meet the bouncer's expectations. And lastly, was the third lineup, where we resided, it was as low as one could get in this superficial hierarchy. Here we stood, there were no women in this line, only men, poorly dressed, or alone and creepy looking. I felt comfortable with this designation, and enjoyed the show of desperation in peoples faces as they approached the head doorman with a party of friends, subject to the intimidation of possibly having to be delegated to our sorry location.

It was then that I noticed a black Land Rover pulling up to the front of the club, and before I could get a look at who was inside, I saw a flash of leg and brunette hair bound effortlessly past the gold plated cap stands of the velvet barrier, and into the club. It was Rose, and before I knew what I was doing I quickly slipped through the back door, past the bouncer, that was busy being chatted up by some drip of a blonde, "So, how often do you work out?"

Rose was about 10 feet away, checking her coat, and I was about to approach her with her original promise of getting my friend and I into the club, when I felt a hand grab me by the shoulder. It was the bouncer, who by the way works out four days a week, "Hey, I am just going to say hello to my friend there," I explained. It seemed to be no big deal to me, he thought otherwise.

"No your not, your gonna stand in line. You can talk to her when and if you ever get in."

Rose was within arm's reach, and for some reason I thought that if I could just get her attention a scene reminiscent of so many movies would unfold, when someone of petty authority instantly finds out you are much more important than they are.

"I am so sorry sir, please, go right on in," I imagined him saying as Rose and I embraced, her date for the evening stepping aside, in the name of true love.

This however was not the case. I pushed the denim sleeved, tree stump arms of the doorman as hard as I could and yelled, "Rose! Rose!" but the pounding bass of the club swallowed my plea. As Rose walked up the steps towards the dance floor, the bouncer proceeded to bounce. He grabbed me by the neck and slammed me against the wall, as he yelled for back up into the microphone pinned to his shirt collar. Before I knew it I was being thrown by two large men, clear of the sidewalk, and into the street, landing in front of a bright yellow cab, its blue chevy emblem on the grill staring me in the face. I quickly got up and promptly walked away briskly from the crowd that was beginning to form around the cab. My friend caught up with me, he didn't ask any questions, he's seen it all happen before. We walked to the next block and into another bar, no line up here, just a small crowd, a stage, and a karaoke machine.

After a couple more gin and tonics, I informed the MC, that I would be performing the Rod Stewart classic, Hot Legs. I had worked this number in various karaoke bars and parties, and had by now perfected my act, transforming the infamous ode to female anatomy into an aggressive, borderline, punk rock performance, complete with antics reserved only for the largest arena crowds. I swung the microphone from its cord, catching it when I dropped to one knee. I thrust my fist into the small audience that looked more like a bingo crowd than a gathering of late night revelers. I screamed bloody murder, "Hot legs! I love ya honey" and kicked my black leather shoe into the air, high above my head, nearly splitting my pants, and then finally, I turned around, and shook my ass, in all its glory, to my adoring fans. When the song had finished I dropped the mic, its thud resonating through the speakers at full volume, and walked of the stage. A small applause greeted me as I made my way back to the brown vinyl of my bar stool. I leaned over to my friend and said, "that was for Rose."

Upon my arrival home, I noticed under the bright, harsh lighting of my apartments communal hallway, that my pants were stained with oil from the spicy beans that we had ordered earlier. I took them off and threw them towards the window, where the little socks with the red cherries were still sitting, knowing full well that I would be picking everything up, and washing it in the morning.