I Tumble for You
Today, Terry and I went to the laundromat to do our wash. If I haven’t mentioned him before, Terry is my closest friend. He’s also a dwarf who’s really into metal, especially Guns N’ Roses. Terry must be in his mid-thirties by now, but due to his diminutive size and facial hair and tendency to wear a bandanna like Axl Rose, he looks more like a fat child dressed up as a pirate for Halloween. For example:
Anyway, so Terry doesn’t have a washer-dryer in his building, and neither do I, so we decided to meet up and go to the laundromat together. The laundromat by my place is pretty standard; basically it’s like a social club for Mexican women with industrial washers and dryers humming and clattering in the background. Today, when Terry and I walked in, we saw the Mexican women, some of them only a few inches taller than Terry, and a lone black man so old he was turning gray, wearing an ancient suit from Goodwill, washing dozens of colorful blankets.
Terry and I set up shop at the far corner of the laundromat, and while we waited for our laundry to wash, we played our favorite game, “6 inches.” If you don’t know it, “6 inches” works like this: you and a friend (read: opponent) take turns punching each other in the shoulder from no more than 6 inches away (hence the name), until one of you quits from the pain. I had lifted Terry up on one of the plastic-moulded chairs so he could get a better shot at my arm, and we were maybe 10 rounds into the game, our arms hurting like hell, when the old black man in the ancient suit wandered over and started watching us. Terry’s short, powerful arms give him an advantage in “6 inches,” and by now, he was starting to wear me down. Meanwhile, the old black man kept observing, his arms crossed, a mean smirk on his lips. Terry delivered a crushing blow into the bone just below the meat of my shoulder. I instantly felt sick, and begged off. “That’s it,” I said. “You win.” Terry threw up his hands in victory, and hopped off the chair. He’s never been a particularly gracious winner. He’s got a little man-complex.
“That’s some bullshit,” the old black man said. He had a slight stammer in his speech, like an engine that sputters before it starts. Terry and I both looked over at him, not exactly in a friendly way. “Excuse me?” said Terry. “I said that’s some bullshit,” the old black man said. “You’re some bullshit,” Terry flung back at him.
Moments later, I was hoisting Terry back up on the chair so he could take on the old black man in “6 inches,” this time using his weak arm because his strong arm was tired. But I’ve gone up against Terry’s weak arm before, and frankly there’s hardly any difference in power. Before the game commenced, the old black man took off his ancient suit jacket and draped it over one of the racks the laundromat provides to patrons. He did it very carefully, like he was wearing Brooks Brothers or something, when in fact the suit looked like a hand-me-down from a homeless person. Then the old black man rolled up the sleeves of his yellowed shirt. After that, the old black man rolled his neck around, cracked his knuckles, stretched.
“C’mon with this shit,” Terry said. “Let’s go.” Finally, the old black man squared up. I noticed his forearms were so thin they looked like a bundle of cables wrapped in black electrical tape that had gone dry and cracked over time. “Motherfucker,” the old black man said, starting to sway and work himself up. “Motherfucker,” he said again. “Easy,” I said, starting to get uncomfortable. “Let’s go, old man,” Terry taunted. “Enough talk. Let’s do this. Hit me.” “Motherfucker!” the old black man cried out, so loud that it drew the attention of the Mexican women, who all turned in our direction at once. “MOTHERFUCKER! MOTHERFUCKER! MOTHERFUCKER!” The old black man suddenly launched into a kind of violent fit that was just scary. Everybody stopped and stared. I caught Terry’s eyes and we were like, “Shit…” The old black man kept yelling, too. “Motherfucker, I will beat your ass! I’m not your father, boy! I’m not the sonofabitch! I never hurt nobody in my motherfucking life you think you know me! You don’t know me, jack! Motherfucker! MOTHERFUCKER! FUCK YOU, MAN!”
Terry hopped off the chair, and the two of us scrambled out of the laundromat. As we left, we could still hear the old man was screaming and ranting like a maniac. We decided to go for burgers around the corner to let the situation cool down. Our laundry would be safe. The Mexican women would make sure of that.
Fifteen minutes later, while we were eating burgers, we saw a firetruck roll up, then a cop car, then an ambulance. Lights flashing, they all parked in front of the laundromat. Firefighters, emergency responders, and cop hurried into the laundromat. “Holy shit,” I said to Terry. “This is crazy. Can you believe this?” Terry looked very serious, like he felt somehow responsible for what was happening. He didn’t say anything back to me but just nodded, a sign for me to be quiet.
Ten more minutes passed, and we saw the old black man being lead out of the laundromat by two large firefighters, one at each elbow, and into the ambulance. Then the ambulance drove away, followed by the police car, then the firetruck. We paid for the burgers and walked back to the laundromat to tend to our clothes.
Inside, the Mexican women were in a tight group, chattering away animatedly in Spanish, which neither Terry nor I spoke. As we passed them, though, they looked at us like we’d done some awful. “What?” Terry said. “What happened?” ”You make him crazy,” the very shortest of the Mexican women said. “You. And you.” She flicked her head accusingly toward me. “Me…?” I said. “He’s a very nice man. He come in every day, every day. Wash his blankets. Nothing happen. He bother nobody. He never have no problem with nobody. Then you come and you play your punching game and you make him crazy. They take him. He go crazy.”
Terry and I turned to each other, and I said, “Did she just accuse us of driving that guy insane?” “C’mon,” Terry said, looking more than a little depressed and guilt-ridden I have to say. “We gotta put the clothes in the dryer or they’ll get sour.”