almost okay

Dear Lyzako,

Despite the fact that you took great care to maintain an extremely low profile as a resident of Ferndalia, were practically invisible to your thousands of adoring fans as you ran your errands incognito (shades and a floppy hat doing most of the hard work), I must say that your departure has left a void in the atmosphere here that is difficult to describe. Sometimes it's as though I've been handed a book to read, one that's received glowing reviews and comes highly recommended, only to find all the pages blank once I've opened the cover. I put the book down, sure that I must have made a mistake, return to it later and find that the pages are indeed still blank.

I washed my laundry today at that place on Nine Mile - the one the Chinese guy took over, the one that's been sliding slowly downhill ever since. The air conditioning was working wonderfully for the first time all summer, due most likely to the fact that it was only sixty-five degrees outside this afternoon and the doors were propped wide open. One change machine refused to take more than two of my dollar bills, which to all appearances were flawless, untorn and flat. Half of the neon signs mounted to soffits around the room reading: 'Triple Loaders', 'Dryers' and the like no longer work and one tube over the centrifuge machines sagged out from the wall in a way that might suggest the connection could create a fire hazard. The signs that continue to light up hummed and buzzed so loud that they could be heard over the washers. Every other washing machine had a note taped over the coin slot describing various malfunctions in childish ballpoint scrawl, 'DON'T WORK DON'T SPIN' being the most popular. Nearly all the ones that were operational were stuffed with clothes long finished and left while thoughtless customers shopped, ate or slept in their cars.

When I first arrived the place was a nightmare of half-heard cell phone conversations, crying babies and slamming washer lids. Thankfully, by the time I was halfway through the chore it had quieted down considerably, the babies either falling asleep or leaving and the rude phone people taking off while their laundry washed. I knocked off a chapter of 'White Doves at Morning', flipped through the local rags and was out of there in an hour-and-a-half.

Just as I was getting the last of the pile folded, though, that spectacle-wearing, gum-cracking witch that works there came by in her little red vest, pushing a dust mop and chewing like she was getting paid just for working the gum.

“Feels like Fall out there today, doesn't it?” she said to me, obviously mistaking me for somebody who she's talked to before. Either that or she was in an uncharacteristic social mood. To the best of my recollection she'd never so much as said 'hi' to me before. Anyway, I had farted just seconds before her arrival. I'd been dropping the silent-but-deadly kind ever since lunch and the stench was sweet - a mixture of last night's beer and the navy bean soup and chicken sandwich I had for lunch.

“Yep,” I said as she approached the bloom of my aroma. “It's coming alright. Won't be long now.”

I don't quite know how this ties in with your move, but I do know that you can picture the whole thing as it went down in a room with which you are familiar, can see the cast of characters in your mind - the Chinese guy, the gum-cracking attendant and myself, starring as The Farter. You can leave out imagining what it smelled like if you want.

The long and short of it is: it cracked me up on a day when I needed a natural laugh. What's funnier than a fart joke after all? Unfortunately, there was no one else around to appreciate it. That's where you come in and what prompted another letter on my part.

That and I only need two more posts to drive those fucking apologies off the first page.

Regards,
Marty Sherman