Laundry Day

Word count: 972

         James tugged again at his all-too-loose kilt, muttering to himself just exactly what was wrong with laundry day. No matter how he planned it, he always managed to have no clean pants to wear down to the Clean Streak laundromat. The kilt came from his drum corp days, back when Scottish pride was the fashion for corps, so everyone marched in a kilt. It didn't matter that the bloodline of James was probably at war with the Scottish for the better part of a millennium, he still marched with Tartan pride. Of course, that was forty years and fifty pounds ago, and the lack of belt loops on his now faded garment meant that he and it were always in constant war to keep the border in place, much like their historic brethren, and equally terrible to witness should the line of defense break. Thus, with laundry basket in one hand and the Scottish pride defending his modesty in the other, James started off down the street.
         As he walked, James started making predictions as to what taunt-romat hooligans he would run into this time. It was a Sunday, so he suspected it would be The Drunk, still smelling and bragging of the “Saturday crawl,” though having two pubs in the entire town made this much less of an accomplishment. It had been The Drunk last time, managing to mumble to himself about having never seen a 60 year old Scotch before. There was always some snide comment to be made, James found, and the laundromat seemed to wash away people's manners and couth demeanors, leaving just the “demean” bit. He brushed these comments aside with the knowledge that these reprobates possessed little laundry skill and most likely never could get their whites quite white.
         Up ahead, The Clean Streak loomed like gaudy jewelry displayed over top of an otherwise humble outfit. The mismatched neon greens and oranges clashed with the wood and brick storefronts that surrounded it, and the incandescent sign proudly displayed day and night the soapy, naked man running down a street with laundry. The suds placed just right to avoid angry townsfolk, but James had always hated the logo anyway. As he got closer, he could see the other trademark, a propped front door, was still there as well. A few months back, the sprinkler system had started acting up, going off when too many machines were running at once. It had something to do with the old system being unable to distinguish smoke and exhaust from the dryers, but rather than fix the sprinkler system, the management just kept the door propped at all times.
         One look around once he was inside and James knew he was in for a long day. Rather than being full of the normal Sunday morning crown, there was just one other customer inside: The Drunk. Spying James, his face sloshed around until it settled in a gin ... err, grin. “Sssso it'ssss you,” he said, or perhaps the liquor said. He could be more than 50% alcohol. “Where'ssss your bagpipe?”
         Actually, you're full enough of hot air to qualify, thought James, though he dared not say that. Instead, he chose the machine nearest to the door and farthest from The Drunk and opened the lid to begin loading in his clothes. “Mew” went the hinges. It sounds like the door could use a bit of grease, thought James. “Mew” went the hinges again without the door even moving.
         “Hey you! I assssked you a questions,” said The Drunk, clearly not getting the hint. Again, James didn't bother to reply, but this time it was because he was wondering just how the hinges managed to squeak without him moving the door. “Mew” went the hinges, as if that would answer the question.
         Upon further inspection, James realized that the sound was not the hinges at all but instead a small chocolate brown kitten sitting at the bottom of the machine's tub. The kitten looked up at James, its large eyes trying to take in just how much larger James was than it. However, being trapped in a machine took precedence over James's gigantism, so the kitten once again mewed its plea for assistance. James continued to stare, not sure what to make of the situation.
         “What're you ssstaring at?” said The Drunk. “Isss it that dumb cat that was bugging me? Keep it there or it'll just make those ssstupid cat noisesss.” The Drunk proceeded to make a sound that was part screech, part moan, and none kitten for a few moments until the effort of such left him out of breath and sweating.
         Looking down at the moon-eyed kitten, James made another silent decision. Taking a pair of pants from his yet-to-be washed laundry, he slipped them on then let the kilt fall away. Taking the soft cloth of the Tartan, he wrapped the kitten snuggly before removing it from the machine. Cradling the kit-tan in one arm, he quickly loaded the rest of his laundry into the machine, added the detergent, and started the cycle. The kitten did not struggle and seemed content resting all wrapped up while he did this. Taking that as a good sign, James carried the kitten out the door, making sure as he passed to nudge the door ever so slightly and letting it close softly behind him.
         “I think I will call you Scotty,” James said to the purring bundle in his arms. The purring was soon matched by the hiss of the sprinklers from inside the Clean Streak and the howl of a wet Drunk. “Scotty, I think I have some tuna at home with your name on it.” With that, James and Scotty began the uneventful trek home.