Laundry day. I can’t put it off anymore.
I strip down to my laundry day outfit of stained, threadbare, hole-infested scraps. The cropped camisole has to be older than I am, scavenged from the days of tags and stitched seams. The shorts I found scrunched up in the closet when I moved in, two sizes too big for me, requiring a corded belt to keep them from falling off. And a pair of floppy stockings complete the ensemble.
The outfit is suitable for no other witness than the whirring, clunking washing machine that holds every other shred of cloth in my wardrobe. I’m one of the lucky ones. Machines like this were an amenity when the Hive was first built, but most have since been ripped out and the newer units don’t have them at all.
Halfway through the soak cycle, I jump back in surprise as the Contessa of Arbuckle bursts in. I don’t have enough spare coin to fix the broken locks, so the Contessa often treats my apartment as her own personal passthrough between Public Hallways #3770 and #3781.
“Daaahling, this is…quite the look you have going on,” the Contessa sniffs. It always jars me how she drops her R’s in “darling” but only in “darling.” That, and the way she stretches out the “daaaaaaaah” makes me wonder whether she thinks that Daaahling is my given name.
I look around for a towel or a robe, a bit self-conscious in my laundry day outfit, but the Contessa herself is entirely naked and covered in subcutaneous dots of ink. The aging fashionista swirls and minces around the utility room to show off her latest acquisition from the metaversal realm of shared delusions, unaware that that I’ve hacked an off-switch into my Basic-issue lenses. She would be scandalized if she knew that anyone could pierce her digital illusion.
“Make yourself at home, Your Worship. I’d offer you a cup of tea, but I have to babysit the machine. If the motor overheats again, I’ll need to shut her down real fast.”
I gesture to the only seat in the utility room, a squat, aluminum commode that provides utility when the room is flipped to bathroom mode. At other times, to the lens-enabled, the toilet projects the appearance of a quaint antique bench.
The Contessa drops her tattooed butt onto the toilet seat and fluffs out her invisible petticoats. She sees the utility room as it was programmed to appear, eternally clean and bright, with the grime and cracked tile walls hidden behind a surface of virtual paint. But she sees me for me, and her scowl betrays how unimpressed she must feel.
“Doing your laundry, daaahling? Such a waste of time and water, and for what?”
“For cleaning my clothes.”
She rolls her eyes. “I can understand the physical artwork on your walls. Monotonous, but at least they’ll retain some value. And I can understand the paper books on your shelves. Some people enjoy such eccentric throwbacks to a less refined age. I, myself, will sometimes indulge in a splash of perfume inherited from my grandmother’s boudoir. But this? This daily ritual of adorning your body with animal skins? Daaahling, it’s barbaric!”
“I don’t own any leather,” I tell her, for what has to be the hundredth time. “Or furs. Unless you’re thinking of wool?”
“Wool? What is this…wool?”
“A fabric made from the hair of an extinct species of mutton-culture. I have some wool, but I’m pretty sure this outfit is a cotton-poly blend.”
“As I said, animal skins. Like the cavemen wore.” The Contessa adjusts the chin-strap for the plastic cone that rises like a dunce cap from the top of her head. Also covered in dots, it would be projecting the Contessa’s big-hair coiffure, probably adorned with jewels and ribbons. “Daaahling, let me hook you up with the tat artist who does my touch-ups. She’s the best in the business. Optimal spacing, clean lines, fade-free color. It will be my treat!”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m not ready to trade in my cloth for a set of mocaps.”
“Suit yourself. I just hate to see anyone missing out on all the ’cap-exclusive styles. Why, this little number debuted just last night on the runways of UnderParis. I see you trying to look away, trying to pretend you’re not mesmerized by the flames, the feathers, the flair. This could be you!”
I bite my lip and try not to snicker as the Contessa waves a hand over her sagging breasts.
“I don’t do fashion,” I tell her.
“That much is obvious. But what else is there, daaahling, now that they’ve climate-controlled the entire Hive?”
My lip is bleeding now from all the biting. For the Contessa, Level 3 is the entire Hive, as if the entire UnderRealm didn’t even exist! I’d be surprised if she’d taken a single set of stairs in her entire lifetime.
I turn my attention back to the washing machine, which has added an odd clunking noise to its rinse cycle. I listen closely, wondering whether the gears need to be tightened again, tuning out the Contessa as she drones on about the effortless ’cap-enabled transforms from business to casual, or from athletic to NeoGoth, or from Civil War reenactment to Peek-a-Boo weekendwear. If only I got the tats, she says, she’d drop me a lovely something from last season’s Hidden Faces collection, or even a Virtua-Versace.
“Leave me alone, please,” I finally tell her.
“I will not.” She folds her arms across her chest. “You’re in need of an intervention, daaahling. I simply can’t let you go on wrapping yourself in rags like some modern-day mummy. And are those shorts being held on with a rope?”
“Why, yes. Yes they are. And unless there’s some new technological substitute for the feel of cloth on skin—”
With a final clang and a soft pop, the washing machine churns to a stop. A pool of water gushes from the bottom panel.
“Oh no. No, no, no!” I pull open the cabinet to find the source of water. The hose has come unclamped, and the reservoir is draining fast. By the time I reconnect the seal, the water is gone.
The Contessa is horrified. “Is that a wrench? Are you using the tools of a handyman? Why would you even own such a thing?”
“Get out!” I shout, pointing to the door.
“Actually, I was—”
“Out!” I point toward the door on the other side of the apartment, and the Contessa of Arbuckle makes for it at a comical run.
“If you change your mind, the offer still stands. I just want to see you happy, daaahling. Join us in the modern world and all your problems will fade away.”
“GET OUT!!!”
The Contessa slams my door so hard, a picture falls from the wall. It’s the one with the boy in blue overalls, holding a pitchfork next to a pile of hay. It’s not well painted but I like it for its depiction of green grass and blue skies. Those must have been such sights to see!
My laundry is wet and soapy. I’ll need to refill the reservoir before I can restart the rinse cycle. Not ration-water, of course, not on my Basic income. The graywater has to be harvested from the UnderRealm nooks where it seeps and drips from the overhead pipes.
I grab a spile, a coil of tubing, and a pair of collection pails. It’s going to be a lot of work, but these are the sacrifices we must make for our laundry.
