Doing the Dirty Laundry

The downstairs bell rang. I assumed it was Mrs. Simmons warning me she was going to practice on the organ. When I looked down at the bottom of the humid stairwell, it wasn’t Mrs. Simmmons. It was Celeste Stuart, the thirty million dollar, soda pop heiress.

“Dave Hamilton gave me your address,” she said.

She followed me into the cramped living room where Margo’s painting angled against a corner of the low ceiling. We maneuvered around cans of wood stain and lacquer that Mr. Jackson gave me, antique lights from Mr. Mount Blanc, the beer from Garland, and the cases of Coca Cola Billy Poston had thrown in the back of the van. The paneling, the copies of In the Court of the Crimson King, and the leisure suit from the mother of eight and the naugahyde jacket were in the way too. There was barely enough room to sit.
She sat in the only vacant spot left on the green vinyl sofa that came with the apartment.

“Arthur’s in Miami with his other wife,” she said.

“His other wife?”

“I was having lunch with a friend who had a question for Arthur so I called his Miami office. The receptionist said Arthur had gone to Marathon and Key West with his wife,” Celeste said.

​She fumbled with the collar on her blouse. She smiled while she undid the top button before sitting on my lap.

“Can you get the rest of these for me?”

​I was attracted to her the first time I followed her up the spiral staircase of her home.

​”Where did you get all this junk?” she asked, running her hand over the leisure suit as I played with her fabulous, pear shaped breasts.

​”It’s a long story about a guy who doesn’t exist on paper,” I replied. “But I’m gonna put it on paper someday when I have the time.”

​”At least you have a Bible,” she said then leaned over and grabbed it.

​It came with the apartment. She paged through the King James.

​”What are these?” she asked.

​A reefer fell out the Bible. I had forgotten all about them.

​”Have you ever smoked reefer with a mynah bird?”

​”What?”

​”Follow me,” I said.​

​She navigated around the gallons of refinishing materials and the cases of Coca-Cola. I ducked my head under each threshold on the way to the bedroom.

Celeste glanced at the haystack of dirty laundry in the corner of my bedroom. It no longer fit in my Volkswagen. Sam’s cage was right next to the dirty laundry. He stared out of the cage at us.

​“Where’s your waterbed?” she asked.

​“This place came furnished. I’d have to put this bed in the living room if I wanted a waterbed,” I said.

​The double bed had a frayed green bedspread that also came with the apartment. She pressed down on the mattress.

​”Are we going to do it on this? It’s like concrete,” she said.

​”You won’t notice it, once we get stoned. With the bird,” I said.

​”I’m used to the St. Cloud waterbed,” she said. “Let’s do it over there.”

​She pointed in the opposite direction.

​”In the laundry?”

​”Yes. In your laundry,” she said.

​First things first though. I lit reefer and blew several rings into Sam’s cage before I handed it off to Celeste. It was beautiful! A few moments later he was singing like a canary before he fell off his swing. I wrote down everything he said which included the directions to Simmons brothers’ loot. I couldn’t believe where Mr. Simmons hid it. I should have known all along.

​”What was that all about?” Celeste asked.

​”My landlord was a bank robber before he went to work for the A&P. He and his brother stashed their money. Both brothers are dead. Sam’s the only one know’s where it’s at. Mr. Simmons made him memorize it,” I said.

​”Why should you care? I’m worth thirty million dollars, and you’re getting ready to make love to me.”

​She glanced over my shoulder at Officer Ultraviolet’s posters on the walls.

“Let’s try that,” she suggested.

We went to the laundry pile and almost knocked over Sam’s cage. I thought about Beatrice and Hal, the couple with the romantic novels and the dump truck, and I wondered if Beatrice had ever read anything like this in one of her pastel novels, a dream mechanic and an heiress doing it in the dirty laundry?