After he left for school, I looked in the laundry basket. This will
come as a surprise: They weren't there. I checked the washer.
Empty. I opened the dryer. A pile of towels. Two of his shirts
(again, with the two) among the pile, but only two, both of them
out of season.
So where were all of his shirts? It's not like we were talking
about socks. Those, I could understand. As everyone knows, socks
are notoriously free-spirited. In any given pair, one of them
invariably makes a break for it, leaving its mate alone, waiting
for a return that never comes. But shirts? They're dependable.
They're the things you give off your back. They never stray. Unless
we're talking dry cleaners, which is a different story altogether.
Everything gets lost at the dry cleaners. Skirts. Sweaters. You
name it. But there, the clothes don't so much run away as get
abducted. There are as many dry cleaners stories as there are
people who frequent them. But a friend of mine,
Mark, spins a yarn
that's worth retelling because it's a cut above the others and
because telling it helps me make my word count.
His tale begins routinely enough, with him dropping off five shirts
at the cleaners. When he goes to pick them up, he's told they're
missing.
This was the second time in a row the cleaners had lost his
clothes. The first time they lost not only his shirts, but his
pants as well. That time, everyone was apologetic and practically
sobbing that this sort of thing never happens. A forgiving guy,
Mark was moved by their heartfelt sentiments and by the wad of cash
and credits the owner gave him as amends. He gave them a second
chance.
On the second occasion, the owner was more than apologetic. He was
vexed and upset. We'll find them, he vowed.