For the McCormicks, before Saturday dinner, there was Saturday laundromat. Besides school, this was one of the most stable things Kenny had. It was attached to an old-time ice cream parlor. Sometimes, Kenny would look in the windows and watch the workers scooping in pinstripe shirts and hats, but he never went in.
He knew the inside of the laundromat so well, he could recall almost every inch still, even after years of it being shut down. Near the front sat a nice woman with smile lines and purple bags under her eyes, surrounded by dry cleaning bags and rags. Her two Pomeranians sat in a blanketed basket in the chair behind her. In the corner was a green mat with a T.V. and toys, two rocking chairs, and a bench. There was a Coke machine with fading yellow lights. The ceiling fans were always spinning, gently blowing the leaves of the fake potted plants.
Kenny's favorite thing was the Terminator 2 pinball machine. Half the lights didn't work and Arnold Schwarzenegger's voice sounded strangled but Kenny adored it. All week he would search for quarters in sidewalk cracks and parking lots so he could play it. He wasn't very good, and he desperately wanted to get better. Sometimes he saw the blue outline of Arnold's head when he closed his eyes after a night of playing.
Tonight, he and his father needed to wash extra bedsheets, and he relished having more time to practice. The laundromat was mostly empty, save for the chip tunes of the pinball machine, and the laugh track of whatever sitcom was playing on T.V.
A large woman with a shaved head and flip-flops paced back and forth, watching her circulating clothes and crying into her phone: "I don't have time for this... I am so tired. All I do is work."
Distracted, Kenny watched her pace. She looked at him once then looked away. He wanted to help.
His father's voice floated behind him: "Don't stare, Kenny. It's rude."
Kenny shrugged and went back to his playing. How much would an 11-year old help, anyway? The problem seemed to be much bigger than laundry.
He was especially off his game tonight. Round after round, the little ball slid past the half-flashing lights and between the little levers under the dirtied glass and Kenny's hopeless face. He was almost out of quarters. The Terminator laughed at him.
The door chimed, and a young couple came in with dress shirts to be dry-cleaned. Kenny blew cold air into his sweating palms. With a deep breath, he positioned himself as if he would dive over the machine. The door chimed again. He ignored it. No distractions this time.
He inserted another quarter and zoned in. The sound effects and lights faded from his thoughts. Concentrating on the small silver ball now, he followed it as it zipped over robot skulls and mechanical limbs.
Change lane.
Across the metal rail like a bullet train.
Change lane.
The ball headed toward death but he caught it, just barely with the tip of the flip and lets it rest there for a few seconds before launching it through blaring red lights that read "Security Pass."
It hurls into a winning slot.
Lights dance all around the machine. Music plays. Kenny stepped back, palms up, grinning.
"Nice job," came a voice from the fake fern.
Kenny jumped and turned around. "Holy shit, Kyle!"
"Sorry, did I scare you?"
"A bit." Kenny looked over and saw Gerald loading a basket. "What are you guys doing here? Don't you have a washer and dryer?"
"Our washing machine just broke." Kyle walked toward him, hands in his coat pockets. "And I'm pretty sure my dad doesn't have any clean underwear."
"Yikes."
"Yeah, my mom was yelling something about 'racing stripes,' soooo... here we are."
"Kyle," Gerald peeped from a row over. "Get off the high horse, there. Your underwear isn't exactly immaculate either."
Kyle groaned.
The woman harboring Pomeranians behind her counter got up and started wiping the folding tables with paper towels and vinegar.
"So, uh, how long were you watching me?" Kenny asked.
"Not long. I didn't want to interrupt you. You were practically humping the machine."
Kenny smirked. "I bet you had fun watching that."
"What? No!"
Kenny laughed. After a moment, Kyle laughed too.
Change lane. Lightning struck outside, and the windows rumbled. No one seemed to notice but Kenny. He looked at Kyle and gasped. He was suddenly older and blood leaked from the corners of his mouth.
"Kyle..."
Lightning. He was a child again.
"What?"
He couldn't tell exactly where the memories were merging, what facet of heaven or hell they were in.
"Uh..." Kenny shook his head. "Nothing. Do you want to play?"
"Sure," Kyle reached in his pocket.
"Oh, no. I have a quarter for you."
"You sure?"
"Totally." It was Kenny's last quarter.
He let Kyle have the last game (he won, which didn't surprise Kenny at all) and they retired to the bench. An old man slumped over and asleep in the rocking chair across from them, unfolded laundry draped over his basket. They watched a sitcom on the fuzzy T.V. with disinterest.
"Do you think it would still be funny without the laugh track?" asked Kyle.
"It's not funny to begin with."
"Haha, true."
Kenny glanced at his father, loading two dryers. They had a half-hour to 45 minutes.
"Something on your mind?" Kyle leaned back.
"No, why?"
"You looked like you were worried about something."
A crow hit the window, broke its neck, and fell, blackened feathers splayed out on the pavement. Change lane.
Kyle Marsh, 18 years old, sat next to him with a slit throat. Blood trickled from his eyes and down his cheeks. Kenny was 19 and he could see his skin tightening around his hands like shrink-wrap.
"I'm so sorry this happened to you, Kyle. This wasn't supposed to happen... I was too late."
Kyle touched his face, pulled his hand away and stared at the blood, soaking into the ridges of his fingertips.
"It's not your fault," said Kyle, closing his hand into a fist, watching the blood trail down his wrist. "I wasn't thinking. I got in the way. As usual."
"Kyle..."
Their fathers were gone. The woman crying into her phone left her clothes still spinning. Vinegar still lingered in the air. Laughter was slow and soft.
Kyle walked up to a washer, stared at his distorted reflection in scratched silver. All he saw was blood, his gray skin, blue lips, and darkness where his eyes used to be.
"Is this real? Are we real?"
"The memory is real." Kenny remained seated, arms out, coaxing Kyle to come back. "You are. And you were never 'in the way' of anything. Don't say stuff like that."
Kyle walked slowly back to the corpse on the bench. He curled up next to him and rested his head on his thigh.
"You must be tired." Kenny stroked Kyle's hair.
"Exhausted," he mumbled.
"It'll be over soon. You'll feel better. I promise."
"There's no way that this is what you wanted, Ken."
Kenny paused for a moment, looking down at Kyle's profile. "What I wanted? What I want... what I've always wanted is for you to know that I love you. And I need you to live."
"I'm going to miss you."
"I won't be far, Kyle. I promise. I'll always be looking down."
Change lane.
"Kyle." Kenny nudged him. "Kyle, wake up."
Kenny's father was by the door, waiting impatiently.
"Leave him," he said.
"No," Kenny glared at him, in the tone that would be the centerpiece in all their future confrontations. "Kyle!"
Kyle shifted. "Was I out long?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.
"Nah. You must be really tired, you practically passed out."
"Are you guys leaving?"
"Yeah, we're done." Kenny stood up.
"I'll see you at school on Monday?"
"You'll never see him again," Stuart chimed in with a laugh.
Kenny rolled his eyes. "I'll see you soon, Kyle."
Sleepily, Kyle gave him a little wave. "Later, dude."
"Later."
Still lying on the bench, he watched an upside-down Kenny walk away, out of frame.