By now we're obsessed with this most recent vision on our otherwise pure evening.
I remember how my mom responded when I told her that, one balmy summer day, when I was walking on Twelfth, I saw this guy taking a dump right on the street— right in the middle of the street— and how she couldn't believe I chose this existence, and I tried to tell her this is my life.
Mom, this is my life.
One -Spin Cycle
Saturday, January 7, 1995
Into my world he comes. After I wake up early and write my column for two hours, I reward myself by doing laundry. "I'm trying to picture what you do during the day." I'm sitting next to a guy wearing orange pants in a grimy Laundromat on West Fourth at the beginning of a new, hopefully stunning, year. Saturday morning calls for wearing red sweatpants featuring Mickey Mouse on the left hip, dragging dirty clothes in a blue plastic basket with a broken handle five blocks to a slightly cheaper Laundromat than the one around the corner from my basement apartment, stuffing as much as humanly possible into a single machine, and relaxing while drinking deli coffee with half-and-half and eating a low-fat berry muffin while reading the Times as my laundry spins. This is the way it's been for over four years. Any variation and I'm thrown. Possibly made angry. Maybe I'll mope. I focus on the guy in orange pants. "You have to have another job. You can't be mak ing it by playing a club once or twice a week." I look at him doubtfully, trying to quickly remember how much I weighed when I woke this morning. "Can you?" I blow on my coffee and suck in my stomach, which is tough when sitting down.
Kim, the Korean man who works behind the counter, adjusts the TV picture. We've known each other for as long as I've lived in the West Village. When it's only the two of us, he'll play an Anne Murray tape in his cassette player and sing out loud: Could I have this dance for the rest of my life? I pretend not to listen. This image is something I hold on to: the Korean man singing Anne Murray songs at the Laundromat on West Fourth.
I know who the guy in orange pants is. He's the lead singer of Glass Half Empty. Alternative rock, Manhattan scene. Madeline would be very, very envious. Jeff, however, wouldn't care. Out of nowhere, Rob Shachtley, rock 'n' roll singer, strolled into my Laundromat to do his laundry on a Saturday morning in the West Village. We spoke immediately, without shyness or formality. He said, I recognize you from somewhere. He recognized me from the audience. From the Fedora, Sin-é, the Cooler, the Mercury Lounge, other clubs. Madeline has a crush on Dave Stomps, the drummer. What began as Dave Stomps Watch turned into a weekend plan. Something to do, almost like commitment.
"I bet you're going to say you work with underprivileged kids, aren't you?" I cross my red legs. "Don't even say Teach for America." With two fingers, I pinch a fat cranberry on my muffin. "You work for Blockbuster Video, I know it. Admit it." I pop the berry into my mouth.
He looks around my age: thirty, thirty-one. He resembles Roy
Orbison, with thick-rimmed glasses, dark sideburns, and a slight but unobtrusive gut. He's a young, rather tall Roy Orbison. His clothes are mismatched and he probably got them in the East Village, which means they're pretty expensive. The white t-shirt he wears has the Burger King logo on it, but instead of Burger King, it says, Burger Christ. He's wearing East Village garb but he's doing his laundry in the West Village.
When I lived on the West Coast, girls asked each other, "Is he cute?" Back East, they ask, "Does he have money?" Looking at young Mr. Shachtley, I'm not sure how I'd respond. He's not drop-dead gorgeous, but— among certain girlfriends— I'd say, "I'd do him." He sings in an unknown band, but he dresses in trendy attire; he's not rich, but he's got spending money. A nice-looking guy who lives above the poverty line.
"Close, but no cigar." He eats sour-cream-and-onion potato chips. I hear them crunch in his mouth. "Catering. I cater."
"You're divine." I practically suckle the word. I mean it too. I mean it because I like his goofy hair, his slight but unobtrusive gut, and the way he eats potato chips at 8:30 in the morning. " Chips so early?"
"I haven't really gone to bed yet, so this is like a late dinner."
I lean forward. "What's the Burger Christ t-shirt all about? Are you trying to make a point?"
He leans forward too. "You know, usually I am, but this time I'm not." He smiles. "Does it make you uncomfortable?"
I look at his t-shirt. "I'm just wondering if there's a message I should be getting. I'm wondering if you're commenting on yourself, on contemporary life, or on Burger King. Which is it?"
He winks and clucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Just remember me as the groovy guy with potato chips and mixed messages you met in the Laundromat. That's all."
"What do you wear when you cater?" I ask, imagining he has to wear something besides that t-shirt.
He doesn't stop munching. "Did you ever work in a movie theater in high school?"
He's killing me softly. "As a matter of fact, I did." How does he know? And should I ask for a chip?
"You remember the outfits?" When he tilts his head to the side, his hair shifts. Most people only dream of eating potato chips the way this guy is doing it.
I look at a water stain on the ceiling and envision the black vest and matching pants I wore at sixteen. I came home smelling of popcorn, the bottoms of my shoes tacky from cola. " There was a shiny strip of satin down the seam of each polyester leg."
Rob nods, excited. "That's what I wear." He stuffs more chips into his mouth.
"Wow." He's the lead singer of a rock 'n' roll band and he caters in black polyester. "Do you live around here?" I'm bold, an opportunist.
He shakes his head and brushes crumbs from his lips. "Nah. I stayed at Dave's house last night."
"Dave Stomps?" I nonchalantly ask as if I already know. I'm in the know. Dave, Dave Stomps, the drummer.
He clicks his tongue twice and points a finger at me. "Yep. Dave lives around the corner. Sometimes I stay over. I had to do laundry— a girl vomited on my leg last night."
"Gross." I look at his washer, the clothes spinning around in bright colors.
Rob scrunches up his nose. "You have no idea." He crumples the bag of chips into a ball and shoots it into a garbage bin loaded with used fabric-softener sheets. "I'm doing Dave's towels too. I really live in the East Village." He sucks in air. "What do you do?"
I sip coffee. "Columnist." I pause, deciding to try something out. Why shouldn't I? He's wearing orange pants, for God's sake. "I'm a writer for a hip paper with mass circulation."
His jaw drops open. "You write for the Village Voice?"
I can't hide the frustration. "No." I shake my head violently. "New York Shock. I write for New York Shock "
"Oh." He smiles. "I like New York Shock." He's possibly lying. "Who are you?"
" 'Abscess.' "
Glittery eyes. "I love 'Abscess.' " He leans forward, looking like Rodin's The Thinker, but with clothes on. "I don't even know your name, 'Abscess' writer."
" Sybil Weatherfield." My name embarrasses me. Too pretty. I secretly like it.
Rob Shachtley extends his hand. "Nice to meet you, Sybil Weatherfield. Wow. 'Abscess.' " We shake. "You're like a celebrity."
Abscess— an open wound. Sounds a lot like obsess. "It's a neurotic little feature," I tell him. The racing of the mind, the bouncing off walls, the manifestations of cerebral overload . . .
Rob Shachtley