Episode 6

The heat just exacerbated his hangover. Even this short walk up the street seemed to take all of his will. How much longer could he keep doing this crap? He didn’t know. He would never know. He spent his days hoping for some miracle or sign to guide him; a vision that would never manifest itself. He spent his life swimming in darkness; a darkness that was either imposed by some glitch in his brain chemistry, or the darkness that he imposed upon himself. In that darkness, no light could enter.
He entered the Laundromat with a full hamper in one hand, and a bottle of inexpensive detergent in the other. Upon entering, he was immediately seized by the number of olive faces in his presence, which was extremely unusual in this white-bread town. Throughout the laundromat, eight immigrant woman; the wives and mothers of migrant fruit-pickers, were tending to their broods as they loaded and unloaded multiple washers and dryers. Aside from one elderly caucasian woman lurking by the change machine, his was the only pale face in the joint.
As he searched for an open high-capacity washer, he was immersed in a language he couldn’t hope to understand, and he just KNEW they were talking about him. Realistically, that was very unlikely. Just keeping track of their kids was a far bigger concern for these migrants than anything Rudy had to offer. To them, he was just another rich, lucky gringo. He didn’t know whether he should feel relief from overcoming this bout of paranoia, or be even more suspicious of these people. Their comfort with, or simple lack of attention to the situation made him feel even more uneasy. Why didn’t he matter anywhere? For all they knew, he could have been the head of INS, but they didn’t seem to worry about it. Que Sera, Sera. Persona non grata or persona who cares; he had about as much impact as a marshmallow, and he knew it.


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