By George

I've been writing a short story about a fictitious character named George Freehly. George has evolved from a pleasant middle-aged man living on the third floor of a soaring downtown apartment to a nosy next-door neighbor who resides at the corner of 6th and Bean. Today, though, George has relocated to a retirement village: the lawn is dotted with Bocci-ball-playing octogenarians wearing knee socks and suspenders while blue-haired ladies congregate in the dining hall for an afternoon round of canasta. Recently, George has become something altogether unexpected: a patron of Suds and Such Laundromat, where he can drop his pants on Wednesdays for half price.

On his way home from donating blood at the local blood bank, something he does on a regular basis, as he has the universal blood type but can never remember exactly what that is, he parks his Vespa scooter in front of Suds and Such and, emptyhanded, makes his way in. He sits in the same plastic chair in front of the same washer as the day before...and the day before...and the day before that. It is here where he watches clothes, not his own, mind you--socks that will not have a mate after drying, sweat-stained white undershirts, a woman's oversized hawaiian-print mumu--twist and turn through the spin cycle and extra rinse and reckons the washer is representative of his life: a series of predictable events with only the cleanest of outcomes. He's never taken a risk, unless he counts the time he jaywalked last fall and feigned confusion upon being questioned by a policeman, which resulted in a police escort back to the "old folks' home."

Now, this is where George becomes blurry in my mind. What kind of risk could George take? Who can George become? It's like a late-life coming-of-age, and there are myriad possibilities. George Freehly...a paradox of my own creation.