Not having your own washer and dryer can be a real test of patience. There was a laundry room in the basement of the hotel, but since the staff never planned on anybody staying with them for more than two or three weeks, the room was stocked with one of each machine. Because of that, laundry day was a very time intensive experience.

The alternative – a laundromat – was always available, but when the weather outside hovers around -15 Celsius and the winds are blowing off the lakefront, you don’t exactly rush outside with excitement, eager to trudge through the snow to sit in a room filled with degenerates watching washing machines twist and pull. Whenever I’m in a laundromat I feel like I’ve been stranded in Darwin’s waiting room. It isn’t fun. But nobody said laundry was fun.

I made my way up the block and over two streets looking like Santa Claus with my two hefty bags of clothing until I came upon the sign reading “Imperial Laundry.” It was hard to miss; the E and the R in Imperial’s neon sign were out, as was the N in Laundry, so from one side of the street it looked like you were approaching “Impial Landry.” I went inside and removed my skull cap, setting the bags on chairs that showed years of abuse, dried food stains, scratches, and motor oil. I didn’t want to know anything about the motor oil.

Why must laundromats and post offices both have the smell of three day old urine? What is it about the two places that allows for it? Today the gods helped out a bit, as the room’s smell was partially masked by the scent of just-used bounce sheets. Somebody up there likes me.

I put my two loads in the wash, loaded the machine with looneys and sat down to check my phone which had been buzzing with a message ever since I turned the corner of Spadina Avenue.

“Hi Reed, Jan Janotta here from the district attorney's office. I have good news, exciting news regarding our little nuisance.” Our “little nuisance” was Deirdre MacKenzie, the troubled woman who had been harassing and threatening me and two guys who lived in Delaware. “Her defense team has struck a plea bargain with terms acceptable to our office, so she’ll be out of your life forever. All three of you. Great news, Reed. Call me at your leisure and I’ll provide you with details.”

I called Jan and his eagerness was the same as in his voice message. “She’ll never bother you again,” he gushed, very proud of another win the D.A could list in its records.

“You’ll pardon me if I exercise a little skepticism. She’s found me before. Where I live, where I work, what I drive, where I go for my morning coffee. Would you like to revisit some facts of the case?” I asked.

“No, she’ll do nothing like that,” said Jan assuredly, “the risk will be too great for her. Don’t you want to know what the plea amounted to?”

“Sure, lay it on me.”

I heard a ruffling of papers on Jan’s end as he fumbled for the right documents. “Ms. MacKenzie is ordered to pay court costs and restitution in the amount of $6,000 and must satisfy Delaware state-sanctioned community service requirements in excess of 250 hours. She must also enter herself into a state-approved anger management program.”

I sat silent in the laundromat, the sounds of rotating washers and dryers in the background.

“Reed? Are you still there?” Jan asked.

“Let me get this straight – she’s sentenced to community service? No jail time?” I felt cheated. I felt there was nothing keeping this woman off the street and out of direct contact with me.

Jan ruffled through a few more of his notes. “She has a suspended sentence of 18 months. That means if she so much as violates a single term of her sentence or fails to complete any of the requirements, they haul her straight off to jail.”

“But she doesn’t do any time in the big house until that happens and the police catch her,” I responded. I shifted in my chair; the cold plastic of the seat was hurting my ass.

“What you’ve got to understand is the impact, Reed. If this had gone to jury it would have been difficult to secure a verdict involving served jail time. This was a very workable, very viable, and most importantly, very heavy plea. She will not be having a walk in the park with this. You’re dwelling too much on the negatives and not enough on the positives.”

I have a tendency to do that.

Jan provided me with a few more details and I tried to sound as appreciative and thankful as I could be considering my level of disappointment. He concluded with the ever-popular “call me if you need anything else” and then hung up. I sat there, head against the wall, and focused on the thought of not having Deirdre MacKenzie in my life for the first time in nine months. This was cause to celebrate.

I pulled the Fuente Opus X cigar from my coat pocket and clipped its end. I rolled it around in my fingers and looked at the three other people in the laundromat, wondering if they’d be put off by the smoke. I don’t know why they would, they sit in a room smelling of urine. If anything, the smoke would cover the smell. I pulled the Prometheus lighter from my pocket and flipped the top, spinning the roller ignition on the side. I hope the dryers aren’t gas with bad connections.
____________________________________________________________________________________

“Hey Reed, you robbing the cradle or what!” screamed Anna, the annoying and crass production manager who had traveled with me from Los Angeles, from across the room. “You’d better watch it, they’ve got laws against that sort of thing up here!” she laughed and walked back into her office, shutting the door with a loud metallic click.

In a workplace filled with women, the one most after my attentions wasn’t even an employee. Ever since our introduction on Valentine’s Day, Margot’s daughter Corrine had made a habit of coming by work after school once or twice a week on the premise of visiting her Mom, but that usually lasted all of five minutes and then she was at my desk for another half hour like clockwork.

“Who’s that?” Corrine asked in a snotty voice, nodding her head in Anna’s direction.

“Oh, that’s Anna. She’s mean. She’s depressed. She’s who half of you women will grow up to be.” Martin looked over from his desk and snickered in approval.

At 14, Corrine hadn’t been exposed to the hardships of the dating world, where you become a little more hardened and a little more guarded based on the burnouts, letdowns, and heartbreaks your romantic life has suffered. She still had an innocence about her that was sweet and wholesome. But otherwise she was just a girl with an annoying crush.

“What are you doing today Reed?” she asked. This was how the conversation always began.

“Nothing exciting today, Corrine. I’m calling various upscale bars in the downtown Toronto area and talking to them about using their facility for tests we want to do next week on some new advertising.”

“That sounds cool. I had an awesome day at school today. We’ve got a dance next month, once the snow is all melted.”

I shot a look over at Martin and saw he was thoroughly enjoying the fawning puppy act I was receiving. Moments later he sent over an email: “The fourteen year-old is going to want you to ask her to her dance. Way to go, ladykiller.”

I thought I’d be able to scare Corrine away by making her do work. “Hey, you want to help me organize some of this information? There's a lot of stuff to keep on top of.”

No luck; she jumped at the opportunity. “With you? Okay!”

The Deus ex Machina came in the form of her mother, who finally poked her head out of her office and saw Corrine hanging over my shoulder.

“Corrine! Stop bothering him!”

Corrine sighed and walked over to her mother, picked up her backpack and bundled up for her walk to the metro. I could hear her mom giving her an earful. Corrine just rolled her eyes. They learn that so early on.

When she was ready to face the weather Corrine once more approached my desk.

“’bye Reed, see you next week!” I faked a smile. She continued walking towards the hallway where the elevator waited.

“Hey, what about me?” asked Margot, amazed.

Without turning, Corrine gave a a wave as she turned the corner, the kind beauty queens give when perched atop a float in a parade.
____________________________________________________________________________________

On the other side of the University of Toronto and Chinatown, somewhere amid the buildings and businesses on Yorkville Street, the small coffee shop barely stood out. To a tourist – or me – this place would have gone completely unnoticed if I hadn’t been looking specifically for it. I stood under the swinging wooden sign, its paint faded and brittle from years of abuse at the hands of winter. Carolyn, the one positive in a Valentine’s Day heaped high with negatives, had told me to meet her. It had been weeks since we met that night at Henry’s, and after two postponements on her part I was ready to write the whole thing off. Somehow it came together in the eleventh hour, and we were getting together for coffee and to discuss the music we had given each other to listen to.

Carolyn was already inside, seated in a deep leather chair and holding an oversized cup and saucer.

“You’re late,” she said, motioning towards the clock on the wall.

“I am. Apologies. I had a hard time finding the place.” I held out my hand towards the open seat. “May I?”

She nodded and giggled. “Such manners. Most people would just sit.”

“I am decidedly not ‘most people.’”

“You’re right. I wouldn’t let ‘most people’ talk to me in a crowded restaurant, let alone agree to meet them later for coffee.” She giggled again.

A woman came around to take my order. I asked her about a couple of specials scratched on the board in chalk, and then sent her away for my coffee. When I turned my attention back to Carolyn she was looking me over, smiling.

“I know that look,” I said. “You’re checking me out,” I said with a satisfied smirk.

“So I’m checking you out...what’s wrong with that?”

Carolyn had a level of confidence women didn’t usually possess. She was sure of herself, forceful when she spoke, and injected just the right amount of flirtation into the conversation. Too many women go too far in one direction, either coming off as an over-the-top skank, or a cold fish. Carolyn knew her way around a conversation and could steer its direction well.

“What did you think of the music?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No no, that’s not how we’re going to start this,” she replied.

“Oh?”

“Tell me something about yourself. Something embarrassing, something nobody else knows.”

“You’re joking, right?” I responded. “If I tell you some dark secret you’ll take me for some kind of a nut. We don't even know each other.”

“Then tell me something embarrassing. Something you can laugh at yourself over.” She set down her coffee on the table and waited for me to share.

I sat there staring into space, waiting for some random memory to come rushing to the surface. Then I had one.

“I’m twelve years old and have just become comfortable with talking to girls. There’s this girl that lived about five houses away. One day I started talking to her. Then another day. Then another day. And it went on for about a week. The next time I saw her, she’s up at her bedroom window, complaining that she can’t come down. She’s been grounded. So I suavely decided I’m going to stand under her window and talk to her. Little did I know she had a balloon filled with ketchup and mustard hidden from view and when the time was right she sprung it, nailing me good. My hair, my clothes, everything. It was a direct hit.”

Carolyn leaned back in her chair with her coffee, laughing. “Aww, poor guy. I can't stop laughing.”

“Thanks. My bruised psyche appreciates it.”

“See? Now I know you’re human. And you can share an embarrassing moment. So now let’s talk about music.”

The whole time we sat talking, all I thought of was the ways Carolyn was not like Elizabeth. Elizabeth was grating, full of scorn, and self-centered. Elizabeth oozed of independent woman attitude, the type that repelled men instead of attracting them. Elizabeth had an attitude that demanded you bow before her as some feminine supervixen, and as much as that turned me on, I grew tired of it quickly.

I took quick sips and listened to Carolyn talk about The Doves, realizing how she was everything Elizabeth was not. Carolyn had this eternal co-ed look about her that was part youth and part vibrant energy. She was four years younger than Elizabeth but she looked more like eight. She was athletic, and you could tell she used her body for work outside of a gym. Elizabeth was statuesque and thin, and had more of a model's look. Thin models never look like they frequent a gym, and you can see that in the overall lack of muscle tone they have in the arms and shoulders. Everything coming out of Carolyn’s mouth was hopeful and filled with excitement. Whenever Elizabeth talked, it was like being around Cruella DeVille – her words were always acerbic, stale, and laced with negatives.

Maybe it was luck I had met Carolyn at this point in time. Maybe I’d been so badly affected by Elizabeth that anybody who’d walked into my life would have been an instant improvement.

I returned my focus to Carolyn telling me little tidbits about herself, and stopped her when I thought I’d misheard something. “You still go to school?” I asked.

“I take classes in the afternoon and evening – mostly evening – so I can get my fine arts masters degree.”

“Interesting.”

“Interesting bad, or interesting?” she asked.

“Interesting as in commendable, impressive. Bettering yourself through education and reaping the monetary reward down the road.”

“Yeah, well I wish I could recoup a little now. The U of T masters program isn’t cheap,” she responded.

“When are you going to be done?” I asked.

“A year from May,” she replied, crossing her fingers, “a year from May.”

We paid the tab and bundled up, preparing for our walks home. The thermometer inside read the temperature outdoors as -10 Celsius, or about 15 degrees Fahrenheit. I didn’t mind. I wasn’t going to focus on the negative.

When we got outside, I got her phone number from her and told her I’d like to do it again sometime.

“Yeah...when?” she asked, putting the muffler on her face between words.

“You’re the one with the busy school schedule,” I replied, yelling slightly above the wind. “You call me.”

When I got back to my room the message light was illuminating the room.