Lefty was at the bottom of the pile. How he had gotten there was anyone’s guess.
He was discombobulated. Thrown off course.
There had been running. Blisters. Something that looked like athlete’s foot but the body that this yucky condition belonged to was anything but athletic.
Shoulda been called lazy fat lump’s foot.
But a little more than a couple of hours ago, everything had been different. Not perfect, no. When are things ever? But since then, there had been screams. Water, suds and the spinning. Oh dear Lord, the spinning.
And now Lefty was alone. The weight of work shirts and hideous lyrca shorts pressing down on his face.
His brother had promised not to leave him.
They had gripped on tight. Centrifuge forcing them apart. Thread by man-made thread. Like a fairground nightmare, the pair were made singles.
Divorcees, except they were brothers.
There had been light, there had been a crowded scene.
There had been pushing and shoving. Jabbing and jamming. Then the sound of a door closing. A motor whirring. The slow beginning of a rotation. Before he knew where he was, Lefty had passed out.
Righty was sure he was dead.
Absolutely, 100,000% certain. There had been excitement amongst the chaos. He’d been with his twin just a few hours ago. Balled up between some jeans and a pair of threadbare briefs that housed a suspiciously yellow stain.
The duo had been ‘tween floor and washing basket when they were suddenly scooped up and flung into the Big White Beast.
Some moments before there had been not a care in the world. Pants chatting with slacks, T’s nattering to sweaters. No one spoke to the handkerchiefs, they were weird and stuck up.
There had been stories. The pile was rife with ‘em. Tales told at lights out, so as to scare the clothing committee witless.
There was a beast, it was said, that ate garments. Just chomped on ‘em. It was ravenous. Would not stop eating. Ever. It chewed up everything. Some items would come out, the stories went; shrivelled, shrunken and soaking. Some would come out dizzy AF.
And stretched.
They were considered the lucky ones.
Some, well, they were never seen again.
Lefty looked about for his brother. He was nowhere to be seen. Last he had caught sight of him was when a button from some chinos had snagged him and snatched Righty away into the spinning bubbly blackness.
Lefty would wait here. Yes, his brother would find him. He must not end up under the bed. He stuck fast to a cotton shirt - using the static. This would all work out OK.
Righty was in trouble. The other clothes had been lifted out already. He’d seen Lefty’s grey ankle part sticking out. He was pleased for him but sorry for himself. This was a real pickle.
Righty tried to pull himself free but was stuck fast. Looking down, he could make out that his entire bottom half was wedged between two folds of plastic. The plastic seal was a perfect circle inside another not so perfect circle. The Beast had him. He was not going anywhere. These lips were sucking him down. Like Quint in Jaws crossed with the spaghetti sequence in Lady and The Tramp.
Righty’s number was up.
They say that when you die, right before the end, your life flashes before your eyes.
In Righty’s cases this is what flashed:
Verrucas, ingrowing toe-nails, cheesy feet, ill-fitting footwear, slippers, hair, skin, dirt and dust, trainers, sweat, powder, files.
Clippings and drippings, floors and drawers.
The last image to flash as he slipped through the rubber seal...his brother Lefty. He hoped he was OK.
That he would be fine without him.
Then Righty let go.
