Mostly, I need a drink to escape being me.
I turn away from the steak house. I shuffle down Main Street, each footstep more painful than the last. It takes me a while to realize people are staring at me. That my black eye and limping gait aren’t exactly subtle. When the fifth family veers wide and tucks their children closer to them, I give up and head back to the motel. Screw happy, well-adjusted people. I can wallow on my own.
I can’t. The motel room is too empty, the bed too daunting. I need to settle. I still don’t know how.
I pay a visit to the registration desk. It’s manned by a pimply-faced young man whom I’m already guessing graduated from the local high school and is very sorry to still be living here.
“Hey,” I manage.
“Hey,” he repeats, though his eyes are wide at my straight-out-of-hell appearance.
“I’m looking for a laundromat.”
“Okay.”
“Walking distance. Well, short walking distance.” I glance down at my throbbing ankle.
“You’re one of them.”
“Who them?”
“The group. You went into the mountains looking for the dead dude. Except then more dead dudes happened.” Pimply Face’s eyes widen further. “I shouldn’ta said that.”
“You’re not wrong. Yeah, I’m a member of that party. And I inherited everyone’s packs, which is to say, a shitload of dirty clothes. We’re talking sweat-soaked, dirt-covered, and blood-spattered.”
My instincts are correct. Gore is totally this guy’s vibe.
“Well, you know, given the circumstances, I could make an exception . . .”
I nod encouragingly.
“We don’t normally let guests use the motel’s machines. But we got a coupla commercial-grade washer and dryers in the basement.”
I nod again.
“You wanna, you know, gather up what you need to wash? Then I could personally show you the machines, get you set up.”
And this kid could get an inside scoop on what has to be the hottest story in town.
I’m not opposed. Everyone likes to have the social 411 and this is pure gold. The motel clerk didn’t make the system; he’s just trying to survive it. I respect that.
“I’ll be back in thirty,” I propose.
The dude practically levitates. “Good deal!”
I have to smile. At least one of us is happy. Then I limp painfully back to Luciana’s room, and the pile of backpacks that started out days ago as fresh equipment, and are now a tribute to the injured, the dying, and the dead.
* * *
—
My idea is to launder the dirty clothes. It’s not a well-thought-out or detailed plan. I know simply that most of us destroyed many wardrobe items. Given my agitated, restless state, cleaning those articles of clothing is something to do. I will whip each pack into some semblance of order, so when it’s finally reunited with its rightful owner, it’s not a complete horror show.
I start with my own pack—which is to say Josh’s—pulling out the sweat-and dirt-saturated clothing that I borrowed from Luciana. Some items I stuffed into my abandoned sleeping bag as we staged the base camp before leaving. But I destroyed several more items after that. And what isn’t specifically dirty doesn’t exactly pass the sniff test.
In the end, I determine every clothing article in every pack will need to be washed. This approach is going to lead to one helluva laundry pile, but it’s not like I have anything better to do.
I settle in on the floor of the motel room. Grab a pack. Empty out the clothes. Peruse the rest of the contents. I discover empty granola wrappers, plundered first aid kits, used water bottles.
I create piles. Laundry. Garbage. Dishwashing. It’s work, and work is good. More time doing, less time thinking.
I tire quickly but, being the obsessive sort, can’t stop. I recognize most packs by color. I subscribe to no kind of order. I grab whichever pack is closest.
Realistically speaking, I’ll never get each pack reassembled with the correct items. I discover I don’t care. This project isn’t really about gear, laundry, or proper ownership. It’s about saving me from me.
I reach the bottom of the final pack. I remove a glass jar partially filled with white tubes. I don’t understand it. It’s definitely not food and clearly not first aid. There’s a label covered in incredibly tiny print.
It takes me a moment to read it all.
Then I have to sit back.
I think I might vomit.
I know, but I don’t want to know. Memories go flying through my head. Things I thought were one thing, but now I realize were another. It all makes sense, and yet it defies understanding.