the weird chick


May 16th, 2009

I slowly pull the shirt on – buttons undone. The name on the right chest pocket is cheaply stitched; bits of loose thread hang messily, threatening to drop the patch soon. To the casual passerby, my name is Darrell. Personally, I don’t feel I have a name – it changes so often that there’s no real point becoming attached to any particular one. A glance in the mirror brings to my attention the stains adorning my new shirt. They are so difficult to remove – the one problem I tend to hace with my attire. Not much of a cause for concern, as I will be finding a new shirt shortly.

The local dry cleaner is a five minute walk from my home. The short commute is worthwhile to make the shirt wearable, despite its expected short life. I walk in the door and am greeted by a smiling girl behind a counter.

“Hello, can I help you?” she says with rehearsed precision. I point to the stains on my shirt.

“Yes. I was painting the house recently.As you can see, I’m not the most careful. The wife keeps telling me I shouldn’t wear my work clothes when I do anything with paint. Suppose I should listen.” I pause to smile, and to see hers. “I doubt I need to say it, but she’s refused to fix this mess for me. She’s done so too many times, I guess. Would you be able to clean this up?”

The girl smiles again – that phony business smile – and says to me “Of course we can.” Despite the unconventional nature, I remove the shirt right there and hand it to her.

“Thank you,” I begin to say, looking down at the name on he uniform, “Lucy.” I leave.


I slowly pull the shirt on – buttons undone. The name on the right chest pocket is nicely embroidered in a bright red thread, contrasting noticeably with the dull off-white shade of the fabric. To the casual passerby, my name is Lucy.


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