Ramen and Rolexes

Chapter Two: for

The basement air tasted like wet dust and burnt rubber.

Ray leaned his entire body weight against the coin mechanism of Washer No. 4. The metal slide grated. It stuck on the third quarter. He slammed the heel of his palm into the iron block. A dull clunk echoed off the cinderblock walls, and the machine swallowed the money.

He didn't press start. He just rested his forehead against the cold, white enamel. The metal vibrated. Someone's sneakers were thudding rhythmically inside a dryer two rows down.

A shadow cut across the flickering fluorescent light.

Julian stood in the doorway. He hadn't brought the charcoal overcoat, but he still held the heavy crystal tumbler. The cut glass caught the ugly overhead light, scattering tiny, fractured rainbows across the cracked linoleum. Julian looked down. His leather loafers hovered a fraction of an inch from a sticky black puddle near the floor drain.

He stepped over it, clearing the sludge by an unnecessary two feet.

"I’ve been considering the mechanical limitations of this equipment," Julian said. He set the crystal tumbler on top of Washer No. 4. The quarters shifted inside with a heavy, expensive clink. "If the machinery down here destroys natural fibers, what is the protocol for maintenance? Does the university contract a specialized courier?"

Ray scraped a thumbnail under the rim of his detergent cap, dislodging a ring of dried blue crust.

"No."

"There must be a service."

"There isn't." Ray dumped the blue sludge over his pile of faded black work polos and jeans. They smelled intensely of old frying oil. "People in North Campus don't own things that require a courier."

Julian watched the thick blue liquid seep into the fabric. He didn't blink. "Then what do you wear when the temperature drops?"

"Polyester." Ray slammed the washer lid shut. He hit the green button. Water blasted into the drum, a violent, hissing spray that made Julian take a half-step back. "Nylon. Acrylic blends. Whatever they sell at the discount store past the highway."

"I see." Julian touched his own sleeve. He rubbed the invisible, hand-stitched seam at his wrist between his thumb and forefinger. "Is it efficient?"

"It makes you sweat when you walk and freeze when you stand still."

Julian digested this. He looked at the washing machine. The drum was spinning, churning the oily water into a grey froth. He watched it the way someone might watch a slow-motion car crash.

"I need some."

Ray hoisted his empty plastic laundry basket onto his hip. "Need what?"

"Polyester." Julian picked up the crystal tumbler. He held it with both hands. "I need to acquire it. Where exactly does one forage for these acrylic blends?"

"Target. Walmart. The thrift bin down on 4th Street." Ray walked past him.

Julian followed. His leather soles made a sharp, rhythmic tack-tack sound on the concrete, completely out of sync with Ray's heavy, dragging footsteps. They reached the stairwell. The metal railing was tacky with decades of spilled soda. Ray didn't touch it. Julian didn't either.

"Can we go now?" Julian asked.

"It’s eleven at night."

"You said they sell it past the highway. The large stores with the neon signs remain open late, do they not?"

Ray stopped on the landing. He turned around. Julian was two steps below him. Up close, the white sweater Julian wore didn't just look clean; it looked untouched by human atmosphere. Not a single pill. Not a stray fiber.

"I have a structural mechanics schematic due at eight in the morning," Ray said. He shifted the empty basket. The plastic dug into his ribs. "I have exactly three dollars and fifty cents in my checking account, which I need for the bus tomorrow. I am not walking two miles in the dark so you can cosplay a peasant."

Julian looked at the laundry basket. Then he looked at Ray's hands. Ray’s knuckles were red, the skin around the nails cracked from washing dishes in hot, chlorinated water at the dining hall.

"I will finance the expedition," Julian said.

"I don't want your money."

"It’s not charity. It’s compensation for consulting services." Julian stepped up to the landing. The smell of his cologne—something sharp and wooden, like cedar and cold air—briefly cut through the smell of mildew. "You possess localized logistical knowledge. I possess liquidity. I require a polyester coat. You require..." He glanced at the dark circles under Ray’s eyes. "Caffeine. And perhaps nutritional sustenance."

Ray stared at him. The sheer, terrifying earnestness in Julian’s face was worse than arrogance. Arrogance could be punched. This was an impenetrable fortress of wealth-induced brain damage.

A loud, metallic thump echoed from the basement as a washing machine unbalanced.

"Fine," Ray said.

They walked.

The humidity outside was oppressive. The air felt thick, heavy with the exhaust fumes from the nearby interstate. Streetlights cast long, jaundiced pools of orange light across the cracked asphalt. Insects buzzed erratically around the sodium bulbs, occasionally dropping dead onto the pavement.

Julian walked too straight. He didn't slouch. He didn't look at the ground to avoid the uneven pavement slabs. He tripped twice. The first time, he caught himself on a rusty parking meter, leaving a smear of orange oxidation across his pristine palm. He stared at the rust for a full block, rubbing his fingers together.

"The infrastructure here is in a state of severe neglect," Julian noted, inspecting his thumb.

"Don't lick it. You'll get tetanus."

"I am up to date on my immunizations."

They crossed the overpass. The highway roared beneath them, a continuous stream of headlights and tail lights blurring into red and white ribbons. The vibration traveled up through the concrete and into their shoes. Ray kept his hands in his pockets. He was calculating the price of generic instant coffee versus the name brand. If he bought the generic, he could afford a pack of stale bagels. If he bought the name brand, he would have to eat dining hall saltines for three days.

The sliding glass doors of the supercenter opened with a mechanical screech.

A blast of hyper-conditioned air hit them. It smelled of floor wax, synthetic tires, and cheap vanilla candles. The fluorescent lights were aggressive. They buzzed with a high-pitched frequency that made Ray’s teeth ache.

Julian stopped dead in the entryway.

He looked at the endless aisles stretching out toward the back of the warehouse. Mountains of plastic goods. Bins of discounted DVDs. Rows of fluorescent yellow athletic wear. A teenager in a blue vest pushed a train of fifty metal shopping carts past them, the wheels shrieking against the linoleum.

"This is remarkable," Julian said. His voice was hushed.

"It's a*****e, Julian."

"The scale. The lack of curation." Julian stepped forward. He walked past a display of plastic lawn flamingos, his eyes tracking the ceiling pipes. "It’s a monument to overproduction."

"Men's clothing is in the back," Ray said, already walking toward the grocery section. "Aisle fourteen. Don't buy anything that says 'dry clean only'."

Julian didn't follow. Ray turned. Julian was standing in front of a circular metal rack. Above it, a red cardboard sign read: CLEARANCE - $15.

Ray walked back.

Julian was holding the sleeve of a puffy, olive-green winter coat. The outer shell was incredibly shiny. It looked like a trash bag that had been inflated and stitched together.

"What is this material?" Julian asked. He squeezed the sleeve. The fabric let out a loud, crinkling noise.

"Nylon."

"It sounds like a chip bag."

"It stops the wind."

Julian found the zipper. It was made of cheap plastic. He pulled it down. It snagged halfway, caught on a loose thread. Julian frowned. He applied more force. The zipper track split entirely, leaving the coat gaping open in the middle.

Julian pulled his hand back. "It broke."

"Yeah. That happens when you force a cheap zipper."

"Who repairs it?"

"Nobody." Ray grabbed the coat, yanked the zipper all the way to the bottom to realign the teeth, and zipped it up in one smooth motion. "You just deal with it. Or you throw it away."

Julian touched the repaired zipper. He traced the plastic teeth.

"Throw it away," Julian repeated. He looked at the rack of identical, shiny olive-green coats. "You just discard it."

"Put it on."

Julian slipped his arms into the sleeves. The coat was slightly too large. The cheap synthetic filling made his shoulders look aggressively square. As he shifted his weight, the nylon crinkled loudly.

He rubbed his arms. A small blue spark leaped from the fabric to his thumb.

Julian flinched. He looked at his hand.

"Static," Ray said. "The air is dry in here. The synthetic fabric builds up a charge."

Julian rubbed his sleeve again. Another spark snapped against the metal clothing rack.

"I am generating electricity," Julian said.

"Sure."

Julian lifted his arm, looking at the cheap plastic cuff. "I want this one."

"It's fifteen dollars."

Julian reached into his pocket. He pulled out the crystal tumbler of quarters.

Ray looked at the tumbler. He looked at the glass, then at the pile of silver coins, then at Julian’s entirely serious face.

"We are not paying a cashier fifteen dollars in loose quarters out of a crystal glass," Ray said.

"Why not? It is legal tender."

"Because it’s psychotic."

Julian held the tumbler out. "I do not have paper currency. Only cards. And you informed me yesterday that utilizing a black card for trivial purchases draws unwanted attention."

Ray closed his eyes. The fluorescent lights burned through his eyelids. The hum of the massive industrial refrigerators in the grocery section was vibrating in his jaw.

"Give me the glass."

Julian handed it over. It weighed at least three pounds.

"Go stand by the exit," Ray said. "Do not touch anything else. Do not generate any more electricity."

Ray walked toward the checkout lanes. He found a self-checkout kiosk. He set the heavy glass down on the plastic scanner. He picked out exactly sixty quarters, his thumbs smudging the silver. He fed them into the coin slot, one by one. The machine clattered.

When he finished, he grabbed the receipt. He walked back to the entrance.

Julian was standing by the automatic doors. He was still wearing the olive-green coat. He had his hands shoved deep into the pockets. He was rubbing the nylon fabric together rapidly, watching the tiny blue sparks dance across the cheap plastic zipper in the reflection of the glass doors.

Ray held out the empty crystal tumbler.

Julian didn't take it. He was staring at his own reflection.

"It doesn't breathe at all," Julian said.

"No."

"I am currently perspiring."

"Yeah."

Julian looked at Ray.

"We should procure the coffee now."