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Too Hot For Radio: Erin Somers "Washing Up"
00:29:47
Miriam Shor (Pluribus, The Americans) reads Erin Somers' story about a mom doing not seemingly very mom-like things.
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- [00:00]
Dr. Horton Sales Announcer
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- [00:49]
Bank of America/US Soccer Announcer
Good morning, students. Soccer teaches us teamwork, leadership, geometry, art, physics, and a lifetime of lessons we can take with us long after we leave the field. That's why bank of America and US Soccer are committed to helping bring soccer to every school. Soccer is officially in session. Raise your hand to help bring soccer to schools@bofa.com soccera
- [01:17]
Aparna Nancherla (Host/Narrator)
greetings listeners. This is Aparna Nancharla with another episode of Too Hot for Radio. And I just want to make this clear right up front. This. This is really me. And the show is not an auditory hallucination. As you probably know by now, we like to bring you somewhat R rated fiction that we couldn't air on public radio. And if this were an auditory hallucination, I sense it would be a little more personal, no? So while we hope the show feels intimate, I'm talking to you hotheads as a whole. Except you, Greg. Put down the uncrustable and finish that job application, Greg, so you can finally move out of that grubby basement. I'm so frickin serious. Everyone else, welcome to the show. So when you're an American kid, there's kind of a whimsical idea about running away from home. Many of you hotheads are book nerds, which means you read from the mixed up files of Mrs. Baisalie Frankweiler, R.A. where the kids go live at the Met Museum in New York City. Well, listen, I think all of our adults can corroborate that. The fantasy about escaping your life and family isn't just for preteens. For guys, there's kind of a cultural precedent for leaving everything and everyone. You know, Papa was a Rolling Stone and all that, but for women who do the same, it's a completely different set of expectations. Which brings me to our story today. Washing up by Erin Sommers Sommers is an author we've featured twice on Too Hot in the past, making her the first three timer in the history of Too Hot. She's the author of the novels Stay Up With Hugo Best and the Ten Year Affair. The latter of these two originated with a short story of the same title, which we did read on Too Hot. She's quite, quite good at finding new ways to articulate the twists and turns of romantic relationships, as today's story confirms. So let me tee this up for the sensitive among you Warning Sex awkward enough to give you the ick by proxy. Truth be told, you might be more triggered by moms doing not seemingly very mom like things, but I'd argue that's the fun part. Reading this piece is Miriam Shore, an actor known for shows such as Younger and the Americans. She's also featured in the recent hit film American Fiction and the Apple TV
- [03:53]
Dr. Horton Sales Announcer
series Pluribus now is your time to get into a new Dr. Horton home by taking advantage of its national Red Tag Sales event this Friday, July 10th through Sunday, August 2nd. Stop by any of its participating communities and find select red tag homes at incredible pricing. So whether you're buying your first home or looking for an upgrade, you don't want to miss the Red Tag Sales event. Starting this Friday. Discover the Dr. Horton Difference. Visit Dr. Horton.com Dr. Horton, America's builder and equal Housing Opportunity Builder hi diva,
- [04:25]
Venmo Advertiser
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- [04:27]
Bank of America/US Soccer Announcer
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- [04:28]
Venmo Advertiser
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- [04:54]
Aparna Nancherla (Host/Narrator)
to use a Venmo balance and now let's hear Washing up by Erin Sommers. Read by Miriam Shore Washing Up I
- [05:03]
Venmo Advertiser
was living in a car wash. I had a cot in the office that folded up and rolled away into a closet. It wasn't bad, except when I remembered to fear a break in. Then I'd lie there imagining a thief coming in, beelining for the register and encountering a woman in pajamas. He'd shoot me, I'd assumed, not out of malice, but out of surprise. She was shot to death in her bed at the car wash. My husband would have to tell her kids. He would kneel down, gather them in his arms, feel the fragility of their tiny bodies. She was living in a car wash, the older one might say. Oh yes, he'd respond. The Sudson go off 9 near Walmart. Wasn't she brave? In reality, Jake did not approve of my accommodations. He did not find them brave. He said, you're being insane. You don't have to do this. We'll get you an apartment. I like it here, I insisted. We were on the phone on FaceTime. I'd been living at the car wash for about a week. Behind Jake, I could see our kitchen. Sunlight streamed through the windows. Tulips swayed on the island in my blue vase. These were some of the preferences constituting what Jake knew as my personality. I liked the light in the kitchen. I liked fresh flowers in my blue vase that was actually a martini pitcher. You're there now. I sat on the curb outside the car wash, looking at the strip mall across the street. The strip mall's name, Rensley Square, had always made us laugh. It sounded both dumb and grand. Why should it have a name at all? Yeah, yeah, I'm on my break. I'm looking out at scenic Rensley Square. Where are you showering? Tell me you're not. I knew what he was getting at. Was I hosing myself down with the various car strengths? Was I lathering up with the thick pink soap? Maybe he was imagining me by moonlight, doing a nude walkthrough of the whole automated system, pausing while the flat strands of blue foam, like oversized fettuccine, pummeled me from above. Let that be my business. Just shower at the house, he said. When you drop off the kids, I'll put some fresh towels in there. I was still doing pickup every day, driving the kids home, getting them situated, going through their backpacks. I was present for dinner, bath, books, bed. They didn't know about the arrangement yet. Maybe they'd never have to. This was what I told myself, to assuage my guilt. This was how I was able to put them out of my mind. Don't do things for me, I said. The point of the separation was to try to be independent from each other. I had asked for it, and Jake had relented. We'd met in college and, after a relationship of 15 years, had gotten too attached. We've become symbiotic, I'd told him. He said, that's bad. Both animals benefited in symbiosis, if he wasn't mistaken. I said, yeah, but in some cases one is subtly eating the other. He knew what I wanted to do in any given moment, what I would say next. I knew he would wear one of four different button ups on a weekday, one of two different sweatshirts on the weekend. I knew what he was wearing right then. Are you wearing your oxford with the gray stripes? Yeah, he said. He held the phone farther away from himself to show me. Does it matter? It mattered tremendously. Not the fact of the shirt, which looked good on him and was soft, perfectly broken in, smelled like dryer sheets and his aftershave, but the fact of me knowing. I have to go, I said. My break is over. Okay, fine. He seemed disappointed. Remember me to Ramsley Square? The work wasn't difficult. A line of cars snaked into the automated tunnel. I took money from their drivers and waved them onto the conveyor belt. It required less mental energy than my regular job teaching literature to college freshmen. No one was emailing me at 2am to ask for an extension. No one was crying during office hours when the cars came out the other end. I upsold each driver on a tree shaped air freshener. The manager, Eddie, had ordered too much of a scent called Sunset beach and instructed me to unload it. We're far from the beach, said one lady, frowning. I said, not that far. Later I hand washed a Honda named Hilda. I hand washed a Kia named Mia. I vacuumed a VW bus named Grover. Customers told me these monikers, and I repeated to Eddie, who kept a running list in his mind. People name them, said Eddie. They got to put their little imprint. It was Eddie's Craig List ad I had answered in the Apartments Housing for Rent section. Car wash. Unconventional. He had been running this scam for a while. He rented out the office as a bedroom to people who were hard up. He'd equipped it with a cot and a mini fridge. The room came with a job washing cars. The owners had no idea. There was a picture of them in the office. Leo Pepler and his wife, Diane. Leo had a colorless mustache like a scrub brush, which Eddie and I found fitting. Diane had drawn on eyebrows and a pointy chin. The Peppers lived in Hopewell Junction and visited once a month. Each morning I put the office back together, folded the linens, stowed my belongings in case that was the day they decided to drop by. Before I moved in, Eddie made me sign a contract. I enter this agreement at my own risk and with full knowledge that the situation is neither ethical nor Safe, in fact. It's stupid. And Eddie isn't responsible for a fire or anything bad like that. Eddie was particularly proud of what he called the stupidity clause, which he thought absolved him of any liability if a person admitted something was stupid up front. In writing, he told me she had no real legal recourse. Now we were sitting in lawn chairs in the parking lot, business slowed down between lunch and the afternoon rush. I liked it out there. The sun blasted down, the asphalt was cracked and gray. I could feel the exhaust poisoning me at the atomic level. It was what I'd been seeking, some lunar environment, foreign and open to the sky, where I could wonder who I was if I wasn't among my things, who I was if I wasn't with Jesus.
- [12:26]
Aparna Nancherla (Host/Narrator)
Jake
- [12:28]
Venmo Advertiser
being married only reinforced the known version of yourself. Your spouse was charmed by your personality and then he was used to it, and the whole time he mirrored back what he saw. And so, at his encouragement or to live up to some ideal you yourself had constructed, or out of compulsion, you became more that way. Meanwhile, your inner life was locked inside, fed under the door by the books you read and the films you saw and the dissatisfactions you permitted yourself. Still did it justify moving to a car wash? A filthy Saturn pulled into the lot. A woman climbed out, picking her shorts out of her butt. Someone had written, fuck you, wash me in the dust on the back window. At last, I thought, a straightforward directive. I did shower at the car wash. It seemed wasteful not to, with a complex apparatus fully at my disposal, a dedicated facility just for getting clean. I didn't use the automated tunnel. I thought it might hurt me. The spinning cylinders, covered in hundreds of pieces of fabric, moved in with the blind aggression of those robot dogs from Boston Dynamics. They had a lurching intelligence but were insensitive to life's finer vibrations. They'd smother me, I thought, or thwopped me to death. The bay furthest from the road was partially concealed by trees, and this was the one I used. Nights were quiet on Route 9. Low limbs shushed against one another. The white tiles of the stall shone dully. I use my own soap, an oatmeal bar with exfoliating bits. There was nowhere to put it down. I wondered what passersby would think, seeing me, my body bathed orange by the street lights, the sprayer arched above my head. They'd think it was a hallucination, something out of mythology. They'd think I was a nymph, an exurban dryad, or possibly a crazy woman it depended on who was looking. I dried off and put on pajamas and walked around the building to the office. It was not unlike my little office at the university. The light inside was greenish, the ceiling pockmarked with a thousand little holes. I got into bed and endeavored not to think about my children. One disadvantage of living at the car wash was that I could not check on them in the night. A distant piece of machinery cycled on and off, smelled of every air freshener, a noxious slurry of vanilla, peachy peach, Spice Market, Royal pine, a box of Sunset beach that opened right next to my head. I'd always hoped I'd be a car in my dreams. Something compact, maybe with a pert blunt face that an owner had given cute name. A Jetta named Cornelius or something. A Peugeot named Simone. Wouldn't that have been soothing? I'd motor around, up hills, around curves, doing what I was made for, my combustion engine functioning perfectly. Unfortunately, this never happened in my dreams. I was always just myself. One afternoon a silver Bentley pulled into the lot. A man got out, attractive and obviously rich. He wore a tight T shirt, jeans, some kind of misguided European sneakers. He had shoulder length hair. It all evoked cool CEO. He put the top up and asked for a hand wash. Eddie pointed him to a stall and sent me over. The guy looked me up and down. You. Is there a problem? I said. It just seems unlikely. I don't know what that means. You don't look like you'd work here. Anyone can work at a car wash, I said. Anyone can have any job. He meant that I was a woman, maybe, or indeterminately older without being old, or that I appeared to be middle class. I wore the suds and go shirt tucked into my jeans. My hair was pulled back in a ponytail. You're wearing lipstick, he said. I waved my sponge at him. Can I just he watched me clean his car. I vacuumed the inside, bent over with one knee up on the seat. I felt his stare the whole time. When I finished, he said, come have coffee with me. I told Eddie I was taking my break and walked with him over to the diner in Ransley Square. His name was Dale. Maybe I thought I was the type of woman who let herself get picked up by a guy named Dale. Let's see, said Dale, opening the big plastic covered menu. The diner was full of people eating lunch solo, looking down at their phones or off at nothing. The waitress came by and Dale ordered a burger with no bun. I thought this was coffee, I said. I feel like meat, said Dale. Iron. What are your views on iron? I guess pro. So you work at a car wash? Yeah. What do you really do? I really work there. You saw me washing your car? Eddie pays me to do that.
- [17:40]
Eddie.
- [17:41]
That's good. That's his real name. I'm not making this stuff up to be cute. You are cute, though. We studied each other. A piece of his long hair fell across his brow and he pushed it back. I teach college, I said. I have summers off. I'm doing this car wash thing. I don't know. Experiment. I knew it. I let him gloat under the table. He touched his sneaker to my bare ankle. I held still. I thought, maybe I am the type of woman who wants Dale to do that. His bunless burger arrived. He glopped ketchup on top of it and picked it up with his hands, just like you would a burger with a bun. His thumbs gripped bear meat patty. His forefingers touched ketchup, smeared lettuce. He paused between first and second bites. You don't mind, do you? Eating it this way helps with the satiety. The man was terra incognita. Everything he did was unpredictable to me. He reached into his pocket and he could have pulled out a grenade or an engagement ring. Both seemed equally likely. Instead, he brought out a photo and showed me. It was a child. You have a son? I said, brightening. Me too. No. He handed it to me. This is me as a boy. I searched the picture for a sign of why he might be showing it to me and came up blank. It was him as a kid, in a Hard Rock Cafe shirt. He stood with his arms at his sides in front of a bush. There was nothing more to it than that. Do you want to come sit in my car after this? He said. He was at it again, fishing around under the table with his two toned gola or whatever it was, his toes insinuated through the suede. I imagined going to sit in his car, making out with him, while the music he selected something surprising yet horrible, like bagpipe music played through the car's expensive sound system. I imagined what he'd taste like. This I knew. A burger unmediated by bun. I imagined him starting the car and driving me away from Ramsley Square into a life where I'd get to know his habits one by one, acclimate to them until they seemed normal to me, until I defended them even. That's just Dale. That's how Dale eats a burger. That's his picture of himself as a child in a Hard Rock Cafe shirt. He carries it around. I'm fine with it. Another time, I said. He seemed impressed as he handed me his business card. Women don't usually turn down the Bentley. Increasingly it pained me to be at my house. I began to find its niceness troubling. None of the beds rolled away into the closet. There was no glass door through which to glimpse the highway, nor did it smell like synthetic flora. I'd look around when I brought the kids home in the afternoon, at the rugs, at the couch, at the books on the built in shelving, and think, what is it all for? Jake had promised he'd stay out of my way, but I ran into him one evening in the kitchen. He was making dinner for the kids, dredging chicken breasts in flour, stirring rice pilaf, listening to music and bobbing his head. He grabbed me around the waist on my way past and kissed me. He used his meaningful technique as opposed to his distracted technique. He said, tell me that does nothing for you. It didn't do nothing. I wasn't hard hearted. You have to come home, he said. I am home. Stop it. You know what I mean. You can't have a weird separate life. He was laughing at a car wash. It's working so far. We won't be able to keep it from the kids forever, he said. What happens when one of them wakes up in the night? Where am I supposed to say you are? Say I'm sleeping downstairs because you were snoring. And if they look downstairs? We were silent. The TV played in the other room, some children's show about trolls. I could hear our son singing along softly. We've been together for so many years. Of course our lives would be inextricable. Of course he'd be reluctant. A couple metaphors came to mind. The way kids mix play DOH colors together and then ask me to separate them again. The way people in lurid tabloids stories in the 1990s got fused to toilets. There were always some bits that stuck. We're like how people got fused to toilets, I said when they sat there for too long. That's disgusting. He was laughing again. He always laughed when we fought. He appreciated a good line, even when it stung him. Come home, he said again. You belong here. He was referring to my objects, the amenities I had stockpiled to make everyone comfortable. My blue vase, my habit of collecting pencils that wrote smoothly. The citrus I juiced on weekends, the herb garden I had with the kids. He thought that was the substance of who I was. This is ultra stuff, I said, motioning around. Yeah, stuff. Your stuff. He took a breath. What if we just pretended you lived at the car wash? Would that work? It wouldn't work. It wouldn't work. The choices had to be real, the risks playing at recklessness meant nothing. There had to be stakes. I'm seeing someone, I said. I have a date with a guy named Dale. You do not, we said at the time. Same, Same time. You're just saying that to hurt me, we said at the same time. Jesus fucking Christ, we said at the same time. He shook his head. He hated seeing my point made. He hated helping me make it. He was right that I had not arranged to see Dale. I had not planned on getting back in touch. But now that I said it, I saw that I'd have to go through with it. I texted Dale and he met me at the car wash. I let him into the office, mixed him a screwdriver with juice from the mini fridge. He inhaled the air freshener smell and sneezed twice. Flies buzzed around. Other flies, dead or dying, clung to paper strips that hung from the ceiling. Dale's Bentley was parked just outside the door, stationed there like a chaperone. What's your car's name? I said, handing him his drink. Cars don't have names. Some do. It's fun. I rattled off a few that Eddie and I had encountered. Beatrice, Homer, Ishmael, Adolf Hitler. That was a Mercedes. Eddie liked the ones that overlapped with dog names. He was a dog guy. He told me whenever he encountered a Marley or a Cooper or a Spot, the latter usually accompanied by a rust spot. Those aren't the real names, though, said Dale. What? I don't take it seriously because there's no paperwork involved. The state doesn't officially recognize the names of cars, and so I don't either. This left me speechless. We sipped our drinks while flies circled our heads. Do you want to fuck or what? He said. I can't be here too much longer. This place is not what I would call he looked around. Feng shui. We had sex on the desk, neither of us fully undressed. He shoved my T shirt up around my neck for access to my breasts. I kicked him twice in the stomach, getting my jeans off. An old Word of the Day calendar poked me in the earth. The desk surface was laminate too smooth, and it came close to falling off. I kept trying to hold on in new ways to a drawer pull to the stem of a lamp. Neither worked and the lamp clattered to the floor. He didn't have a condom. And I let him proceed without one, knowing this was an objectively bad decision. Before he put his dick in me, he paused. He seemed to be thinking about something, but what? I couldn't begin to imagine this, more than the tendons of his forearms or his impressive head of hair or the outrageous wealth implied by his car, was erotic to me. For a whole 60 seconds I thought I had the antidote. You just had to go out and find the weirdest man you could an alien, basically, and have sex with him in the office of a car wash. But then his reverie ended and he was inside me. And it was just a dick after all, on the small side of average, attached to one of the most unpleasant people I had ever met. Flowers arrived at the car wash the next day. The delivery guy was excited. He delivered to some unusual places, he told Eddie and me, but this is up there. I didn't know why he should find it so odd. People who worked and lived at car washes had feelings just like anyone else. It was a big bouquet of pink roses with splashes of baby's breath. Eddie found the card and read it aloud to me. Thanks for everything. The card was unsigned. They were either from Jake or Dale. If they were from Jake, the card was facetious. But they were not from Jake because Jake would not send facetious flowers. He would not send pink roses, which he knew in my old life of signifiers I found pedestrian. A rose was too literal, a simpleton's flower, and so all signs pointed to Dale. Thanks for everything. I had to laugh. The impersonal friendliness of it, like I'd done him some minor favor, like we'd completed a work task together that had required a more arduous than usual email exchange. I called Jake anyway. Did you send flowers? I was taking money, motioning an SUV into the tunnel. The jets roared inside. The mechanized sponges moved in for the kill. We're having a busy day and I shouldn't have been on my phone. I didn't, said Jake. Must have been your paramour. Don't send flowers. I didn't, said Jake again. He sounded exhausted. The fight had gone out of him at some point. We had moved from playfulness into the realm of pain. The previous phase had had a flirtatious edge. I was leaving, but I was not leaving. I was destroying his life. Or was I? I had created an environment of uncertainty that felt mostly bad, but sometimes good bad. Now we were beyond that and doing lasting damage. I wondered if seeking out this exchange meant I missed Jake, wished he had sent the flowers, had had enough of my own premise. I said, what shirt are you wearing? He said. Stop, I said. Light blue with a hole in the elbow. Nope, you're lying, he said. I'm hanging up now. The SUV exited the tunnel, blown dry and glittering in the sun. I was supposed to be over there selling the driver an air freshener. Wait, I said. I'm looking out at Ramsley Square. It's resplendent. There's a fire truck in the parking lot. But he had already hung up. That night I made the water as hot as I could bear. I traded my bar soap for liquid body wash so I could put it on the ground. I had improved at washing things generally, myself included. I soaked up and rinsed in a matter of seconds. Back in the office, I put on my pajamas and got into bed. I must have drifted off because the next thing I heard was a rattling at the door, jingling of keys. I heard a man's voice say, there's someone in there. I heard a woman's voice say, a thief. They had it back. Where? Whoever it was, I wasn't the thief. The thief was supposed to burst in on me. I sat up on the cot, ready to explain. I was groggy and the situation seemed amusing. It just needed to be cleared up. Soon we would arrive at some mutual understanding. We would laugh in embarrassment and apologize to each other. The man entered, followed by the woman. It took me a second to realize he had a gun. It was the owner of the car wash, Leo Peppler. I recognized his mustache instantly. The pointy, chinned woman standing next to him must have been Diane. The gun was a handgun, a revolver. I didn't know the difference. I'd never had a gun pointed at me before. I'd never touched a gun or seen one in real life. Not to shoot skeet or play paintball or menace a squirrel with BBs. Not even to hold someone else's gun for a second while he took a break from menacing a squirrel. The gun looked fake, toy like, and yet it scared me. It was pointed at my chest. I went ahead and put my hands up. He was shouting. His face was flushed. He glanced around in confusion at my zippered duffel, my shoes lined up at the foot of the cot, the roses I had not known what to do with. Who are you? He said. I remembered the stupidity clause. I remembered I had kids at home, a husband. I taught literature to students who hated it. I liked a particular kind of pencil. I juiced on weekends. Blood orange was the best. Don't shoot. I'd said I like tulips in a blue vase. It's actually a martini pitcher. I'm excellently tidy. I'm careful, I mean no harm. I'm not anybody. Ask Eddie. I'm no one.
- [30:31]
Aparna Nancherla (Host/Narrator)
Quite the ending, isn't it? With our terrified narrator held at gunpoint. If she survives, there's a hint that she might return to her old life. It's a cliffhanger, but because it's a short story, we have no way of knowing what comes next. Kind of like how things are with you, Greg. We all hope the rash clears up and Mrs. Clawsworth stops peeing on the bedspread, and your crush Selina finally notices your poetry is fire. But we don't know what's going to happen. Still, we can imagine an ending, or maybe even hallucinate it. Greg running away to his own local car wash. And maybe Aaron Sommers, nameless narrator, is there. And maybe you can hold hands and walk through the car wash together. Anything, Greg, is better than that swampy butthole of a basement in which you somehow live. Anything. Our show is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Mary Shimkin. Our podcast producer and editor is Colleen Pelissier. This episode was recorded at Symphony Space in New York City by Miles B. Smith. Matthew Love is our consulting producer. Our theme song is by Poddington Bear. I'm Aparna Nancherla. Thanks for joining us for selected shorts Too Hot for Radio.
- [32:04]
Dr. Horton Sales Announcer
Now is your time to get into a new Dr. Horton home by taking advantage of its national Red Tag sales event this Friday, July 10th through Sunday, August 2nd. Stop by any of its participating communities and find select red tag homes at incredible pricing. So whether you're buying your first home or looking for an upgrade, you don't want to miss the red Tag sales event. Starting this Friday. Discover the Dr. Horton Difference. Visit Dr. Horton.com Dr. Horton, America's builder and equal Housing Opportunity Builder.
- [32:33]
Bank of America/US Soccer Announcer
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- [32:35]
Venmo Advertiser
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- [32:41]
Bank of America/US Soccer Announcer
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- [32:42]
Venmo Advertiser
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- [32:50]
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- [32:52]
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- [32:53]
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- [32:55]
Venmo Stash Bundle terms and exclusions apply. See terms at Venmo Me Term Venmo Checkout not available at all merchants Venmo mastercard is issued by the Bancorp Bank NA.