Every summer it’s Free Wardrobe Season. I stay on lookout with a book, watching people watch their laundry, and Carlos smokes outside. When a washer or a dryer gets orphaned for a pop or a phone call or something, I stand up and leave. Then it’s showtime for Carlos and a hefty bag.
We don’t always get what we want. Part of the game is dealing with what you get. Once Carlos stockpiled bras for a month. I thought he was a serious pervert. Then once he had about twenty, he pried out all of the under wires and twisted them into figures. They looked like Holocaust survivors. He got really detailed with their hands.
“You might actually be on to something,” I told him.
“It’s not art,” he said, strangling one wire with another. “I’m just making stuff I can jerk off to.”
