Rebecca Rosenblum

Fruit Factory

Something is different: on Tuesday night there is a crisis in our laundry room. One of the driers has shorted out, a loose cord hissing and sparking into the big grey washtub. When it happens, my back is turned and I’m stuffing underwear into the washer. I just hear the snap of static, feel the heat in the air and in my hair. I turn just as the big Greek guy in the blue Adidas tracksuit ducks under the folding table. "C’mon, c’mon," he yells, trying to wave me under the table without getting up himself. I stand still with the faded red panties in my left hand, watching yellow and blue sparks until the super comes running in in her bathrobe and flips the fuse. Then I have to pull my dirty clothes out of the machine in the dark. It’s dark upstairs, too. He’s home, banging on the television set, so I tell him about the cord and the fuse. Then there’s nothing to do in the dark, so I just go to bed.

Wednesday, in the absence of anything else to wear that doesn’t have cat food or engine oil or yam on it, I have to wear a short floral baby-doll dress from high school.

"Whoo, yeah," Jean yells from the forklift as I walk past at 6:04. "Why don’t you dress like that every day, chere?"

I walk fast into my office booth and shut the door, but it’s only a half-door and everyone who cares to can still see me. They can’t see my ass, though, when I bend over to check Fat Cat’s food dish. The bottom half of the door guards me, but I hear applause anyway. Fat Cat’s dish is full to overflowing, but I pour more kibble in just in case. I don’t even look that good, in the dress or ever. I’m just the only girl here.