Starting out, what we have in common: Dead ends.

You: Parental death and destruction, age twelve. Divorce. Mountains of quilt around children. Failed business. Broke, living in broken down truck. Not even having dreams.

Me: Parental unavailability. The last person to enter the family drama where all the characters change and disappear. Divorce. Mountains of quilt around children. Broke. The one person who believes in me is a heroin addict.

Laundry: The inseams of your jeans need to be lined up so the pant leg is creased down the middle. Your last girl friend from Connecticut insisted on this before she ran off with another truck driver. She had aspirations.

Do it yourself I say.

Me: Tony, you can't even imagine the aspirations that tower in my family. Better. Perfect. Never pronounce the letter "a" with a New Jersey accent. Always hold on to the hollow "a" of New England. There are more reasons to look down on everyone else than fingers and toes ten times over. Creases in jeans never enter in.

We stuff the laundry under the bunk. Laundry day, scoop it up, cram it into the red laundry bag along with the blue, flannel sheets. You put the strap over your shoulder. The bag bounces your butt all the way inside. I carry the shower bag with the computer bag over my shoulder.

My favorite: Little America Wyoming when the snow is coming down velvet curtains, sealing the rest of the continent off. Trucks idle but stay anchored, snow half way up the wheel wells.

Everything is coated with the smell of rotisserie chicken. The laundry room is tucked into the middle of the shower rooms. Mostly men do laundry except me. I push dirty clothes into the washing machines while you stand in line for a shower. And there's a miracle. You come back with a shower key and three giant white towels.

Little America has two sinks in each shower room.

While our laundry washes, I scrub my face with micro-beads then smooth a think layer of French cold cream on top. Tweeze stray facial hairs. Clip my fingernails. I start the bath tub water. You turn the shower on.

I walk out and switch the laundry to the dryer. The light through the window is hushed by the snow. The TV is loud in the background.

And that's it for the next half an hour. You and I are free floating. For this minute our world is pristine.