There’s absolutely no reason for me to stew over every little thing, Stuart Bagwell told himself as he carefully folded his underwear and meticulously matched his socks—all black—on the table in the cramped laundry room of his apartment complex. Saturday was underwear and socks day. He liked things just so-so. One pair of mismatched socks and the whole week might be out of kilter. And, of course, one pair would mean another pair. Then another, then another. The chaos could be endless. No telling what might happen if he ever got his underwear out of order. He had them color coded with a stitch or two for one day to the next.
Luckily, today, he had the room to himself. Tomorrow, it’s Sunday, he thought, I can slip into the office when no one’s around and clean up the carnage I left behind. No one will ever know how badly I screwed up. That’s if I’m lucky and nobody looked over my work after I left. But I’m always the last one out of the work. I might be okay. Unless some busy body came back in to check up on me. Today, all I can do is take care of this laundry. Tonight, I’ll make my tofu salad and try to read…if I can. Then I’ll try to get some sleep…if I can.
2.
Behind him he heard the door open and close. A young woman, ten years younger than Stuart, maybe fifteen, from apartment seventeen, downstairs and three doors down from his, had what looked to be a heavy wicker basket in her hands and a pert smile on her face.
“How are you today, Mr. Bagwell?” She slung the basket atop one of the front loading machines like an army recruit would throw his duffel bag onto his bunk. “I haven’t seen you around lately. But you do tend to keep pretty much to yourself.”
“I’ve just been busy,” said Stuart. “It’s that time of year at my work.” You haven’t seen me? he thought. Here I am. I’m here every Saturday afternoon. Three PM on the nose. If you’d bother to notice.
“Well,” she said, a grin on her tastefully made-up face, “summer’s just around the corner. Maybe we’ll see you at the pool this year.”
“Maybe,” said Stuart.
In seven years, he’d never been to the swimming pool, nor had he attended any of the Friday night get togethers in the rec room, nor any of the Saturday morning brunches. Why would he start now? He was fifty-one years old, single, a bit of a worrywart when it came to his looks and physique—though he hadn’t put on so much as one pound since college. He merely saw no reason to put himself up for ridicule at any of the affairs, certainly not in a swimming suit. He’d sagged a bit and he knew it.
3.
“What exactly do you do?” asked the young woman. She laughed. “For a living I mean. Where do you work? A lot of us here are teachers. Some work in banks. Most of us divorced. We always see you leave early in the morning and come home late. With that briefcase of yours.”
Stuart hesitated. He liked to keep his comings and goings to himself as much as possible, yet, she had him cornered.
“I’m an attorney with Butterworth and Jenkins,” he said.
“Wow, a lawyer.”
“I’m not much of a lawyer,” said Stuart daringly. “If I were much of a lawyer it would be Butterworth, Jenkins and Bagwell by now. I’ve been there nearly twenty-five years.”
“But still,” she said, “a lawyer.”
Stuart nodded. Finally, he offered, “Mostly I do taxes and contracts. I’m not a trial lawyer. The partners do that.”
“We all wondered how you could afford a three-bedroom, two-bath unit. There are only a few of those in this complex.”
Stuart wanted to tell her that if he didn’t straighten things out on his desk at the office he’d find himself living in an efficiency near the college campus with sex-driven nineteen-year-olds in grungy t-shirts and cut-offs. He might be flipping burgers part-time at Burger King. Or begging for spare change in front of Walmart.
“When I moved in that was all that was available. I don’t need anything near that big. I’m just too lazy to move again. A body at rest tends to stay at rest.”
4.
“Don’t the three-bedroom units have their own laundry facilities? That’s what I’ve been told.”
As she not so daintily transferred her clothing from the basket to the machine Stuart got a peek at her multihued and patterned underwear and her bras. He tried not to gawk, but gawk he did. His heart fluttered.
“Mine does,” he said. “But I find it more convenient to come down here.” He couldn’t tell her that he didn’t like the unwelcomed humidity in his apartment. He had three humidifiers set precisely the way he liked them. He kept his air conditioner exactly as he needed it to be—what with his sinuses and dry skin, not to mention the hints of arthritis in his fingers. And he didn’t sleep well when things weren’t just right.
The woman curled her lower lip. “I guess that makes sense,” she said. “Maybe? I guess I can see that. This dreary place being more convenient?” She added detergent to her machine then dropped her quarters into the slots. “You must get a great view from your apartment. Not only do you overlook the pool but also downtown. All I see is the back of the office.”
“I do…have a view,” said Stuart. He didn’t want to tell her that he found the noise from the pool an annoyance and downtown, where his office was located in the tallest building, didn’t hold much interest for him. He preferred reading to taking in the sights.
“Maybe,” she said, “if I came over to your place sometime you’d let me get a look at that view. I could bring a bottle of wine. Or beer if you prefer. Or something to eat.” She looked him square in the eye. “We are neighbors after all. How long have you lived here? Seven years? Eight? Still, no one really knows you.”
5.
“This is such a busy time for me. You don’t know how many people put off their taxes. How many ask for an extension. Plus, all of the real estate deals that have to be looked over and finalized. Then there are the divorces and wills.”
“Pish-posh,” she said. “All work and no play makes Mr. Bagwell a dull boy.” She grinned again. “I’m afraid I don’t know your first name. Everyone just calls you Mr. Bagwell.”
Stuart gulped. His business here was over. He wanted to go. “Stuart,” he said. “I’m named after my father.”
“How nice. Stuart…” She let the name hang in the air. “I’ll bet you don’t know my name.”
Stuart shook his head. He didn’t. He didn’t know many people’s first names. Even the people he worked with. He wasn’t one to fraternize with his coworkers. Or, anyone else for that matter.
“I’m Candace” She laughed. “I know, I know. It’s a terrible name. My mother wanted me to be an actress or a dancer or God knows what. So, I’m Candace Walker, formerly Candace Rich, second grade teacher extraordinaire, and you’re Stuart Bagwell, overworked, underappreciated lawyer. Don’t we make a pair?”
Stuart didn’t know what to say, so he nodded then shrugged. A pair?
She laughed.
“Miss Walker, I really have to get back to my apartment. I’m expecting an important phone call.”
“And you don’t have a cellphone? I can see one in your pocket.”
6.
“But I have to take it at my desk where I can look at the papers they’re calling about.”
“Lighten up, Stuart. I’m just giving you a hard time.” Candace Walker, formerly Candace Rich, blinked…or winked. Stuart wasn’t certain which. “But we’re on for a light dinner at your place sometime. Am I right about that?”
“When I’m not so busy,” said Stuart. “Like I said, this is my busy time of year.”
“Bull pucky,” she said. “Stuart, I don’t like being turned down. No one does. Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to be rude?”
“Listen, Miss Walker…”
“Candace. Call me Candace. Though never Candy. I hate that. I’m not that crazy about Candace, Candy is out of the question.”
“Listen, Candace. I really made a mistake at work. If I don’t straighten things out I’ll be in Dutch for certain.”
“What did you do, Stuart? Forget to dot an i? Forget to cross a t?”
“Far worse than that,” said Stuart. “I got the wrong clients name on the wrong documents.”.
“So, you change it,” said Candace Walker. “Don’t they have computers in that office? You simply change it. This is the twenty-first century.”
“But I’ve never done anything like that. Not at work. Not in college. Nor in law school.”
“Phooey,’ she said. “Everyone makes mistakes. Even big shot lawyers.”
7.
“We can’t afford to make mistakes. At least I can’t.” Stuart lifted his own basket, half the size of hers. “I must be going.”
“On second thought,” she said, “did you get the notice on your door about the pool’s opening this Friday night?”
Stuart nodded. He had. He’d carefully filed the blue piece of paper with the other notices of events and fee changes in a drawer. At the end of each year, he’d toss them out, but he liked to save most everything…just in case. One never knows.
Again, she laughed, this time heartily. Her eyes somehow sparkled in the ill-lit room. “Well, are you going to join us this year? You can be my unofficial date. Or, my official date. Whatever you prefer. We’re supposed to bring something. I’ll bring something for both of us. What do you like?”
“I eat anything.” He lied. How can I tell her that I only eat vegetables, certain vegetables, and tofu? That I have a terribly sensitive stomach?
“I like to take polish sausages and sauerkraut to potlucks. Would that be all right?”
Stuart felt faint. “I don’t see how I can make it. Like I told you, this is my busiest time of year. And on Friday nights I like to launder my linens and towels.”
She shook her head. Her short-cropped brown hair seemed to dance. “Just this one Friday you could have a little fun and include your linens with whatever you wash on Saturdays.” She smiled. “I’m in apartment seventeen. Downstairs and three doors down from you. Do you want to come to my place? Then we can walk over from there. You can help me carry things. Maybe
8.
after the party you can show me that apartment of yours. I’ve never been inside one of the three-bedroom units. I bet that view’s spectacular at night.”
“If I can,” said Stuart. “I can’t make any promises.”
“No, Stuart. It’s a date. Seven-thirty at my place.”
“I won’t go swimming.”
“No one said you’d have to. But I might, Stuart. That won’t embarrass you will it?”
Stuart sighed. “I mean I won’t wear a swim suit. I don’t own one.”
“Wear a burka if you like,” she said. “Just come by at seven-thirty.”
In his apartment Stuart locked the door then drew the shutters tight. He checked his thermostat. Seventy-eight. He sat at his desk and opened his laptop. This time of year, it should be easy to find an apartment, something a little smaller than this one, something a bit more private. Far more economical. But could movers get me out of here and into a new one in a matter of days? I did get a glimpse of her underwear. I’m fifty-one, not eighty-one. Blood still flows through my veins. One date? She laughs too much. But, good God, sauerkraut? Polish sausages?
*****
David Larsen is a writer who lives in El Paso, Texas. His stories have been published in numerous literary journals and magazines including Cholla Needles, The Heartland Review, Floyd County Moonshine, The Mantelpiece, Oakwood, Nude Bruce Review, Canyon Voices, Change Seven, Literary Heist, Aethlon, Coneflower Café, The Raven Review, Voices, Dark Winter Literary Magazine, Mobius, Hares Paw, The Griffel Literary Magazine, Bright Flash Literary Review, El Portal, Hare’s Paw, and October Hill Magazine.
