Ramen and Rolexes

Chapter One: The Twelve-Thousand-Dollar Mop

Julian hauled the gleaming espresso machine up three flights of stairs just as Ray was calculating on a legal pad exactly how many meals he could skip before Thursday.

The dorm room smelled perpetually of damp cinderblock and cheap instant noodles. Ray stopped his pencil. He watched the brass-plated contraption take up exactly half of their shared desk. It looked like a miniature steampunk locomotive. The polished chrome reflected more light than the fluorescent tube on the ceiling could actually produce.

"The dorm limit is eight hundred watts," Ray said, his eyes dropping back to his shift schedule at the convenience store. "You plug that in, you're going to trip the breaker for the entire floor."

Julian was carefully pulling a set of bone china cups from a velvet dust bag. He wore a crisp, unbranded white sweater with the sleeves pushed up. He paused, genuinely considering the information.

"The breaker?" Julian asked. There wasn't a trace of sarcasm in his voice, only pristine, unadulterated curiosity. "Is that something the building concierge resets, or do we need to call the front desk?"

Ray finally looked up from his phone. He stared at his randomly assigned roommate. It had been three days since move-in, and the vacuum-sealed bubble of sheer delusion surrounding Julian hadn't popped. If anything, it was thickening.

"This is North Campus housing," Ray said, forcing his voice to stay flat. "There is no front desk. There is no concierge. Gary, the RA, is probably asleep in his room, and if you bother him, he'll hand you a flashlight and tell you to go down to the basement to flip the switch yourself."

Julian’s lips parted slightly as he processed the logistics. Slowly, a look of profound realization washed over his face, followed by an inexplicable spark of excitement.

"Fascinating," Julian murmured. He reached out and tapped the yellowing plastic of the light switch plate, touching it like a historical artifact. "Absolute self-reliance. It’s exactly what I came here for."

The nerve at the base of Ray's neck gave a dull throb. He had spent eight hours last night scanning barcodes on expired sandwiches. He did not have the bandwidth to empathize with a guy treating poverty like an immersive escape room.

"Right. Enjoy that," Ray said. He grabbed his heavy plastic bottle of laundry detergent and a crumpled handful of quarters. "I'm going to the laundry room. Don't touch my bed, and don't grind your artisanal beans into my mug."

"Wait," Julian called out.

Ray stopped at the door, shifting the heavy detergent to his other hip.

Julian walked over to his closet. From a row of perfectly spaced, garment-bagged clothes, he retrieved a heavy crystal tumbler filled to the brim with quarters. He had acquired them after handing a hundred-dollar bill to a bewildered cashier for a bottle of sparkling water the day before.

"I observed the machine at the end of the hall. It only accepts these," Julian said, sliding the glass tumbler across the desk. He looked at Ray with the earnest, hopeful expression of someone proposing a joint venture. "In exchange, could you perhaps run this through with your load?"

He pointed to a charcoal overcoat draped casually over his desk chair. Ray didn't know much about fashion, but he knew the way that fabric caught the light didn't belong in a building with asbestos warnings.

"I checked the care tag," Julian continued, oblivious to Ray's silence. "It has a picture of a tub of water with a large 'X' through it. I’m not entirely sure what that signifies, but I assume putting it in a standard washing machine should be fine?"

Ray looked at the coat. Then he looked at Julian.

"The tub with the X," Ray said, enunciating every syllable, "means that if you shove that into the rusty industrial drum down the hall, it will turn into a twelve-hundred-dollar mop."

Julian blinked. Then, his shoulders relaxed in a visible slump of relief.

"Oh, thank god," Julian exhaled, pressing a hand to his chest. "I thought I got scammed. My brother told me this piece was twelve thousand."

Ray’s fingers clamped down on the plastic handle of his detergent bottle. The plastic gave a sharp, agonizing creak.

He didn't say a word. He just turned around, walked out, and pulled the door shut behind him. The heavy wooden door slammed into the frame with a sound that rattled the hallway, leaving Ray standing alone, listening to the exhausted, frantic hammering of his own pulse.

Chapter Two: Foraging for Polyester

Down in the basement laundry room, the smell of industrial bleach fought a losing battle against the scent of damp lint and old sneakers. Ray jammed three quarters into the rusty coin slot of Washer No. 4. He shoved the metal tray inward with the heel of his palm until it finally swallowed the money with a heavy clank.

Before he could press the green start button, a shadow blocked the dim fluorescent light.

Julian stood in the doorway. He hadn't brought the twelve-thousand-dollar coat, but he was still holding the crystal tumbler of quarters. He navigated the cracked linoleum floor, stepping carefully to avoid a dark puddle of mysterious origin near his leather loafers.

"I’ve been thinking about your warning," Julian said, his voice echoing slightly in the hollow concrete room. "If the machinery here destroys natural fibers, what is the protocol for maintaining them? Does the university provide a specialized dry-cleaning courier?"

Ray leaned his forehead against the cold, vibrating metal of Washer No. 3. The low hum rattled pleasantly against his skull, briefly drowning out the throbbing behind his eyes.

"Julian," Ray said, keeping his forehead against the machine. "People in North Campus don't own things that require specialized maintenance. If a piece of clothing can't survive a hot wash cycle and a dollar-fifty tumble dry, it doesn't belong here."

Julian frowned. He didn't look disgusted; he looked like a physicist who had just been told gravity worked in reverse on weekends.

"Then what do you wear when the temperature drops?"

"Polyester," Ray said, finally lifting his head. "And layers. Usually whatever is on sale at Target."

Julian looked down at his own sleeve, tracing the invisible, hand-stitched seam at his wrist. "I see. And this... polyester. Is it efficient?"

"It makes you sweat when you're walking and freeze when you stand still." Ray hit the heavy START button. Water violently sprayed into the drum, soaking his faded jeans and work shirts. "It’s not clothing. It’s an endurance test."

Julian watched the soapy water froth against the glass door, completely captivated by the violence of the spin cycle. He set his heavy crystal tumbler on top of the machine. The intense vibration immediately sent the glass skittering toward the slanted edge.

Ray’s hand shot out, grabbing the rim just before the crystal plummeted toward the concrete floor.

"Sorry," Julian said softly. He looked at the saved glass, then back at Ray with intense, unwavering seriousness. "I would like to acquire some polyester. Where exactly does one forage for it?"