Crystal Lies - Melody Carlson [49]
Today I was doing mostly sheets and towels. I had just filled the washer, loaded my quarters, and was listening to make sure the machine was filling.
“You new around here?”
Surprised, since no one had been in here when I came in, I turned to see a man standing in front of an open dryer. His weathered skin was the color of an old copper penny, and he looked to be about eighty, although I’ve never been good at guessing ages.
“Sort of,” I told him. “I’ve been here about a month now.”
He nodded as he stooped over to pull his laundry from the dryer into a wicker basket. “Thought I seen you before,” he said as he slowly stood up straight and extended his hand. “Name’s Jack.”
I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Jack. I’m Glennis.”
He dropped his last item into his basket and then cleaned the lint from the filter and closed the dryer door.
I smiled now. “It’s refreshing to see that some men actually know how to do their own laundry.”
He lifted his basket to the folding table and began to sort and fold his clothes. “Well, I’m very picky about my laundry,” he said as he straightened his socks and folded them together. “I like it just so.”
“I can see that.” To be honest, I felt pretty certain that his laundering skills would put me to shame.
“Reckon its the result of having been such a slob for so many years.”
I surveyed his tidy appearance. Neatly pressed shirt and creased trousers. Even his shoes looked recently polished, and he had a folded handkerchief tucked into his shirt pocket. “You don’t look like a slob to me,” I told him.
“Maybe not now. But, believe you me, I used to be.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to this, so I just nodded.
“That was back in my drinking days.” He gave a white sleeveless undershirt a shake, then smoothed it out on the table. “Folks used to call me Jack Daniels back then.” He chuckled. “But my last name’s really Smart. Thing is, I wasn’t too smart back in those days.”
“Was that a long time ago?” I asked.
His brow creased as he considered my question. “Well, I got sober on January 17, 1977. I used to keep an exact count of years, months, and days, but after I hit twenty-five years, I figured maybe I didn’t need to do that no more.”
“That’s great,” I told him as I turned to fill the second washing machine. The room was quiet as I put in a load of sheets and inserted my quarters. I almost wondered if Jack Smart had already left. But he was just watching me.
“Sorry about that.” He ran a wrinkled hand over his short-cropped gray hair. “Don’t know what gets me started sometimes. I’m sure you don’t want to hear me going on like that.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” I assured him. “I think it’s…interesting.”
“Really?” he brightened now. “You in recovery too?”
I shook my head. “No…”
“Oh.”
“But I have a son with some, uh, problems.”
He nodded and frowned. “A drinker?”
“Yeah, and he’s had some troubles with drugs, too.”
“That’s a shame.” He gave a white handkerchief a shake. “Alcohol is bad enough, but drugs, well, they can really ruin a young life.”
“But he’s doing okay now,” I reassured him. “He’s got a job and is staying clean and everything.”
“So he’s in recovery.”
“Recovery?” I considered this. “Well, sort of.”
“Sort of?” Jack looked unconvinced. “That’s not exactly how it works. Either you’re in recovery or you’re not.”
“Well, he’s not in any