I looked over the unit I would be washed with, a model from the mid-nineties, released months before a well known member by the name of Jesse Cavaliere would end his first run as a member, a time which he and I would say goodbye to high school. The wash basin is three foot five inches long, three feet wide, and two foot eight inches deep. The base is two feet eleven inches long and two feet four inches wide. A chrome finish hides the mechanics, air jets that provide the agitation run along the sides perpendicular to the wringer. The wringer's rollers are cast iron with a stainless steel finish, the opening width is three feet long, a mechanical arm is attached to the top roller if the operator feels like working out. I'm quite familiar with this model in particular, flattened through it at least five times a week. I enjoy riding these models, it's like a ride at an amusement park, the kind where you're disoriented from the forces pulling you at will. The gap in the wringer on this one is never adjusted. It was donated by Jesse after he terminated his membership the first time around, before coming back for more. It shows signs of age, with yellow orange rust stains lining the bottom, stubborn of efforts of removal by hand and mechanical techniques. Two jet openings have been replaced so far and it looks like another one is about to give. Imagine the stories if the unit could talk. Brad Keegan has the task of wringer washing me for these ongoing appointments, because it's the only time that he and I have time to see each other lately. He's one of the best wringer operators at this annex, possibly one of the best in North America. I've known Brad for some time now, he's a good friend to have. We met two years ago at a pub in the entertainment district, a place called Ground Zero that opened when the founders of grunge hit the scene, in an 1800's warehouse building that is protected by the Heritage Committee.
As the lead singer of an alt pop rock band I've been a part of since I was fifteen, I get a chance to recognize our small but fiercely loyal group of fans up close, since they always sit in the same area around the stage. Brad is always closest to the stage at every show, unless some other person beats him to the punch. It was a Friday night the weekend before the thanksgiving holiday that we formally met, six months after I knew him as "that guy in center row" and five months before I became a member. After closing a set and taking a break before we load the equipment and head out, we usually sit in an area of the bar in the back corner to unwind. On this particular night, I wasn't feeling that great and longed for some time alone. I had a particularly rough day, I found out that staff would be trimmed at the electronic repair shop where I worked as a customer rep, a job I would lose a week later. Slumped in a chair and lost in my own little world, the waitress had to ask me three times for the money for the beer I ordered. I was deep in thought, mulling over how my life was rather boring.
I'd only been out of high school for a year, and had no ambitions of going to college or university. Still at home where rent is cheap, Helga, a next door neighbour, couldn't wait to go into meticulous detail of how her darling son Sean was doing in pre-law at Harvard whenever she had the chance. Growing up, she would never miss an opportunity to brag about how her son did in baseball, or got top grade or a better grade than me on a test, how it only took him one try to get a driver's license (I failed the first two attempts), and how much of a success he would become. What really irks Helga is how close Sean and I truly are, he's like a brother to me. We stay in touch through e-mail and the occasional phone call, and try to see each other as often as possible. He chose Harvard because it was a sufficient distance between Helga and Boston. We became friends in Grade Two, about a week and a half after they moved in. I was outside playing in the back yard when a volleyball fell from the sky and bounced off the crown of my head. I wasn't hit hard, just a bit startled really, more puzzled if anything. There was Sean, peering over the fence, looking a bit lost and asking politely if he could have his ball back. There were a couple of tree stumps left when the fence was put up to divide properties, which gave the both of us leverage to look at each other until we were tall enough to stand on the lawn. Sean invited me over for a game, the first of many visits I would make to that house over the years.
Our bedroom windows faced each other, our last resort of contact if either one of us were grounded from phone use and banned from the outside world. By the time we were in junior high, his mother started to amplify the pressure for him to get in a university, oftentimes ostracizing him if he didn't get a ninety percent or better average on any given test or homework. Failure was not an option for Sean, "Failure is for fools" Helga would often quote, somehow I ended up as the "prime example". Sean never failed a class, or test, but there were occasions when he didn't reach a ninety. Its too bad verbal abuse is hard to detect. There were times when I wished she would hit him or something, as terrible that would be, then we could have proof that he wasn't in a good situation. Thankfully, his dad Aaron stuck around, though he was accosted many a time for practically nothing. Aaron is Sean's saving grace, and often wanted to get a divorce, but was quite sure that Helga would get custody of Sean based on gender alone. Sean wants to specialize in family law upon graduation.
This one occasion in Grade Ten after a major battle, he hopped the fence and knocked our secret code on the patio door in case he seriously needed to break out of the psycho ward. Sean was in really bad shape from the emotional wringer he'd been forced through, and ready to take the next bus or train to anywhere but here. We took off for the park, when we came across some weed that someone must've left behind due to a bust or something. Sean went for it, and there was nothing I could do to stop him. We both started smoking at this time, he just happened to have a lighter with him. There was a story in the paper the next day about a pool of urine left in the sand box (Sean's bladder had a burst), the police came to see us about it. I took the blame for it, against Sean's wishes. Luckily I wasn't charged, just a stern warning and what seemed like life in my bedroom. I came home a day later to find a microphone on my bed, a gift for the sacrifice I made. I formed our band, Linger, two months later with peers from high school. I came up with the name when Helga's voice lingered through the house after I slammed the door on her face, when she came to bicker about the incident at the park.
I was thinking about Sean for most of that day. We hadn't been in contact for some time. I took a puff on a cigarette, one of the last ones I would have when Brad came over to the table. He was a bit nervous, unsure if he would get a pleasant or rude response. I tapped some ashes in the tray, and broke the ice with a laid back "Hey."
Brad easily formed a smile. "Hi, how are you?" he answered.
"Okay, yourself?" said I without skipping a beat.
"I'm good," he said, standing a bit guarded still, trying to figure out what to say next.
"You were great tonight," he said, frowning in disbelief. ("How original!" he must've thought to himself).
"Thanks. Do you think we're getting better?"
Brad snapped out of his self-consciousness. "You've seen me at your shows?" he inquired, beside himself over the fact that I recognized him.
I sat properly, leaned forward, and set the cigarette in the ashtray before crossing my arms on the table.
"Yeah, you usually sit about two tables back from the stage, more or less central, listening with undivided attention, almost trance-like." I gave him a friendly smile, and extended my hand. "I'm Kelly Belanger".
"Brad Keegan, nice to meet you Kelly."
We shared a firm handshake, after which I invited him to join me. I picked up the cigarette and took a puff, blowing the smoke in an unobstructed direction.
"Ever take up smoking?" I asked, like as if I were his father. I'd been trying to quit for some time.
"I quit some time ago," said Brad, then continued with a personal testimony before me. "Five years ago, on my eighteenth birthday, I had my last cigarette." Brad is two and a half years my senior. "It was tough, cold turkey is so not easy."
"It was cold turkey?" I asked with a childlike enthusiasm.
"Yeah, it was between me, myself, and I. Didn't tell a soul about it."
Mesmerized as I was, I continued to use smoke willingly, three puffs from completion.
"I tried everything else, but nothing worked. Did you ever try?"
I tapped some ashes in the tray. "No, I've been idle about it to be honest."
He asked how old I was when I started.
"Fourteen, right near the end of Grade Eight, at a friend Sue's house. She more or less introduced me to the art," I said.
Sean asked if anyone else in the band smoked. I took one more puff and terminated the stick in the ashtray. "Everyone except our drummer, Kevin. He's, like, God to us in that sense. If he ever started, we'd lose hope." We shared a polite laugh, before I asked him what his incentive was for him to quit.
"Job related," he answered, "You have to be in top shape to work as a staff member with Dacello."
Brad was the first person I met who is associated with employment with Dacello. "You flatten guys for a living?" I said, matter-of-factly.
"Yeah, that's the job description," said Brad, nodding his head in agreement. I asked a waitress for two beers when she passed by.
"How did you chose that for a career?"
Brad leaned back in his chair and reminisced. "I'd been fascinated with malleability since I saw it up close and personal when I was thirteen. A neighbour of mine who just turned fifteen at the time got run over by a steamroller in front of his house. I'm two years his junior, so we hung out sorta. I went to see if he wanted to play frisbee, when there he was, sprawled flat on the asphalt surface. It was his first time being flattened. He had made the appointment a month earlier."
I asked him if the neighbour joined, out of curiosity.
"Yeah, he was in for three years. I was with him sometimes at the annex, watching him be flattened by a steamroller being steered over him, being pulled through a calender into a washer, going through the wringer after the wash, or whatever else. I got such a kick out of seeing him go flat and come back again, a trend that has never lost its luster." I slouched back in my chair, something of a habit when I find my company's topic interesting. "I asked staff members questions about their work, how they got into it, what I could do before to help get into it and the like. One told me that physical labor is a major part of it, not so much maneuvering a guy through a wringer or something, but the moving about of heavy equipment. I was thirteen when I started smoking, around when Adam, the neighbor I was telling you about, joined the Dacello program. My birthday always fell in the week after the high school calender year was over, so after school and my youth ended collaboratively, I had my last cigarette on my birthday and enrolled in the staff training program."
I asked him how long he had been employed at the annex here.
"About a year now," said Brad in a tone of accomplishment.
Our conversation was briefly interrupted when a waitress set two beers on our table. I was ready to pay this time, as I was impatient to get back to the conversation.
"What's your favourite way of flattening a guy?" I pondered out loud, to which Brad took a moment to wear an infectious smile to answer, "The wringer" matter of factly. "I'm not sure why, but I like using a wringer to flatten. Whether I'm cranking it or watching it happen after turning it on, there's just something about it. I like the steamroller too, that's a close second."
I took a sip of beer and asked him if he knew how to drive a steamroller.
"No", he explained, "I like to watch. Steamroller operation is an elective with the program, I opted for laundry specialization." There are some aspects of the art of flattening that you keep discovering, even though it's been mainstream for some time now. It then became Brad's turn to get to know me.
"So, how long have you been a musician?" he asked.
"I started playing guitar at twelve, then progressed to singing when I was thirteen because I liked that better, and I was often told I have a strong voice that carries."
"Or lingers?" offered Brad.
"Good call," I said. "That's how people usually think we got our band's name. I wrote my first song when I was fourteen, about a motorcycle I saw parked in front of a house I passed by on the way to school. Essentially, the song was about wanting to break free, using a motorcycle to leave. It was also an assignment for English class, something I excelled in. Music, and art too."
Brad asked if I took music at school.
"No, I took private lessons. The high school teacher is a good friend of Helga's, and equally loathed me even though he didn't know the real me from the speculated me."
Brad took a sip of beer, and asked me if I was seeing anyone.
"Not at the moment," I answered, and returned the question.
"Not for some time," answered Brad, sighing frustration, then asked what I look for in a partner.
"Physically, I have no preference," I started, "But above all else, she has to have an open mind, willing to learn about me and aspects of herself she may not know, and learn about others. I say this because I'm a wannabe psychologist. I hate the pretentious type, they're like a plague."
I took another sip of beer, a rather long one for some reason. "And a good sense of humour, that's important. And not one to back down if we get into an argument. I can be, like, so wrong about something and think otherwise, and I need someone to correct me. I can go off on a rant, much like right now," I said and smiled, but Brad missed the joke. "Sorry, I must seem just a tad opinionated."
"No, not at all," said Brad, taking a sip of beer then staring off into space. He looked a bit disappointed. I got the impression I must've offended him somehow. I thought it could've happened in the middle of my diatribe, so I asked him if he was okay.
"Yeah, I'm fine," said Brad, textbook-like. He started to play with his beer bottle, spinning the bottom of it on the surface of the table. I knew something was wrong though.
"Did I say something that miffed you?" I had to know.
Brad snapped out of his trance. "No, no you didn't," he answered, and let go of his beer bottle. "I should apologize really," he said, then leaned forward and made direct eye contact. "I really like you and your band, you guys are good and passionate about playing. That's so cool. A lot of groups out there don't seem to have it. But, I also had a hidden agenda for coming to speak to you." He took a moment to chose his words. "I guess there really is no other way to say this, and I hope you really mean what you said, about being open minded, so...." He leaned back, still focused on me, only a bit more intense. "I think you're cute. I thought that for some time, ever since I first saw you."
He stopped to see how I would react, almost ready to get a punch in the gut or something. He laughed nervously and continued. "I wanted to ask you out tonight. I was going to earlier, way earlier, like months ago, but I didn't know how to go about it, or what...you were into. Then you started to describe character traits in your 'potential girlfriend'."
Brad laughed out loud, still nervously, before he buried his head in his hands, then composing himself.
"Man, another disaster," he said, then shook his head. He managed to be able to look at me again.
"I'm sorry, I'm still new at this," he explained, his face three shades of red from embarrassment.
"Don't be," I answered. "I'm not offended. In fact, I thought you were offended somehow. Besides, you're not the first guy to come out to me, and only the second to ask me out."
He was caught off guard by my statement, the red on his cheeks fading away.
"This other time, I was seventeen, at the beginning of second semester of Grade Twelve. This guy Jerry, a thorn in my side all through school, decided to tell another guy Nathan who had recently come out that I was in the closet and that I liked him. After the confusion was cleared, Nathan gave Jerry one good left hook and followed through with a right. It was an awesome sight. Nathan still asked me out, and I couldn't help but laugh. After a polite refusal, he then set me up with his sister Sheila who was in a grade below us. We dated for a bit, she was my prom date, our last date before we mutually decided friendship was better off for us."
Brad breathed a sigh of relief, then slumped back in his chair. "So, I'm not the first one to come out to you?"
I took a sip of beer. "No, that honour goes to Amanda, she's the bassist. Amanda wrote an article for the school paper, in which she came out. The band she was in kicked her out, no explanation, she didn't even have time to breathe. She showed up at rehearsal to find her spot was filled. She simply looked at her now ex-friends, who didn't even want to speak and quietly left, not looking back. Kevin and I found her at a train station, with her guitar and a backpack, her face tear stained, red eyes and a last drop nestled on the edge of her lips. She wiped the last drop, and said she was ready to take off for her aunt's place in Vancouver, until the smoke cleared here, but adamant not to run away for good. She needed time to get away and clear her thoughts. I offered her a position in our band when she returned, since we didn't have a bass guitarist yet, Ben was using the chords on his guitar for the time being. My house was her second stop when she came back, asking if the position was still there. Ben is still with us, then Kim, our rhythm guitarist, joined a month after that. Our line-up hasn't changed for seven-plus years."
At that point, Kevin called me over. It was time for us to clear the stage. Before I left, I scrambled for a pen and a piece of paper to give my new friend my phone number.
All of my friends are now fond of Brad, especially Amanda, who understands him better than the rest of us.
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Leaning on the railing, I was thinking about a new song to write as I watched a group of birds fly in and out of a feeder when I felt Brad tapping me on the shoulder. I turned to look, we greeted each other with a smirk.
"Sorry I'm late," he started, "I had to finish up some paperwork." In Bradspeak, that means he either had charts and schedules to fill, or he sent another member through a printer press.
"Right," I said, a touch wry.
"What?" defended Brad, bemused by my lack of belief. We laughed, then he took me by the right wrist and led me to the wringer washer.
"Need to take five?" asked Brad, just to make sure I was ready.
"No, let's do it."
Brad set the palm of my hand on the bottom roller, the tips of my fingers were snug at the gap between the rollers, the opening called the "tight spot". Brad held my wrist at bay, took the mechanical arm with his free hand, and started to turn it counter clockwise.
This is how good Brad is when it comes to shifting a guy through a wringer. In all cases, my fingers are snatched, snug in the tight spot immediately. The difference is, the time it takes before I actually start to go through it. Other guys keep going at the same pace, wondering why I'm still immobile before they stop cranking and start again to allow the rollers to really grab me and pull. The minute that three of my fingers are snug in the tight spot, Brad eases up on the cranking motion, allowing a smooth transition. By the time my hand is flat and my arm starts to follow through, I lose balance and kneel to the surface of the floor. I bow my head, and before long I'm knocked into suspended animation.
I usually slip into a daydream before I get flattened, to pass the time while I'm flat. This time I was thinking about Michelle, a girl I knew in junior high who I admired much more than a friend. I never built up the nerve to speak to her, I was perfectly content with staring at her from across the classroom, or gym during dances, or any other setting we happened to be in. She moved before the end of Grade Eight. Providence as I recall. She will always be my first crush. I often wonder what she's been up to. I blew back into my full form, only to hear Brad doing a really off-key rendition of "Daydream Believer". Brad turned the machine on, and left me in my privacy after pouring soap along the edge. Warm water bounced off my chest, flowing down and spilling over my waist before reaching the bottom of the drum, gathering in a pool that slowly increases depth over time. The water level just reached past my chest before it stopped rising, before the jets thrust me over and beneath the pool of diluted water and sloshing surface of suds.
Brad doesn't like to be idle for very long. The rinse water that seeps through the open pores of the wash drum barely gets below my chest before Brad wants me through that wringer. He gives me time to shake water from the inner labyrinth of my ears before he perched me up for the wringer. I could feel the stainless steel firm against the crown of my head, my knees dangling over the other edge of the unit, my waist and arms floating on the surface of the draining water before Brad turns the unit on. I prefer going head first, I find it less hectic, since it's like crashing when you hit the pillow after a long day. I emerged flat, flowed down, and glided along the smooth surface of the ironing table as the rollers continued to tug me along effortlessly. Brad pressed his fingers between my forehead and back of my skull. I slowly curved upright until I hang vertically as he picked me up from the table. Brad pinned my head to the clothesline, slipped my arms through a shoulder brace, and shuffled my body to a sunny spot, away from the deck, stories up from the grass field. I love it when there is a strong wind, I feel like I'm flying. No such luck today, just the brush of a warm summer breeze.
I was hovering over the concrete deck when I regenerated into my normal shape, a bit dazed from the head rush and slightly disoriented, and feeling somewhat tired. Brad released the straps. I jumped off and landed on the concrete deck. There was no need to iron me over, I was practically almost dry from the July sun. I gulped water from the bottle Brad handed to me, then we took shelter from the heat inside the air conditioned corridor where I could regain energy. We had enough time to mark the session for my records before a goodbye handshake, trying to find another way we can see each other that doesn't involve work on either part. Brad's a busy man here. He was already late for another member.
"See you next Saturday," he said, as the elevator doors closed before me.
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Flipper212001
August 2001
(edited by The Holy Insurgent of Uncertainty)
