Jul '02 [Home]

Short Prose

Sock Man
Thad Rutkowski

Most days, I cannot wait to get home from work so I can raid the public laundry. Usually, I bypass my apartment and go directly to the basement. By the time I enter the room with the washer and dryer, I am trembling. If someone has a load in the tumbler, I know I've struck gold.
           I make sure no one is looking, then I open the door to the dryer and take out a pair of socks. They are usually warm, somewhat damp and, if I'm lucky, soft and fuzzy. The fact that these socks belong to a stranger gives me the shakes.
           Socks in pocket, I race upstairs to my apartment, rip open the door and slip inside. I take out my booty, have a sniff, then a rub, then say to myself, "Sock it to me."
          I waste no time in defiling the socks. I nibble them with my lips, soak them with my spit, then take out my argyle buster and work them over till they need patches.
          When I am totally spent, I return the socks to the dryer. If the machine is still running, I throw them in. If not, I keep them. Then I make a vow—never to steal socks again.
          But I know it won't be long before I'm back to sock stalking. My sock drawer is bursting with loot.