Open by asking for their details, flatly. Push off from this if it helps: static on an untuned radio.

Lena, seriously? You’re screaming at a wall. I don’t have a tax ID. I’m Vic. I work at that dry cleaner off 4th, the one with the green awning that’s been leaking since Tuesday. My boss, Gary, he’s got the IDs. He’s also got a limp from that skiing trip in ’08 where he broke his leg trying to impress a girl named Sarah. Sarah didn’t care. Gary still wears those silly aviators. You want the number? Ask Gary. Or stop yelling. The neighbors think I’m having a seizure. Again. It’s embarrassing for both of us.

You’re exhausting. The number isn’t on me, it’s in Gary’s head, and he’s currently yelling at a lady in a beige trench coat about a stain that looks like a map of Portugal. I tried to help once. He threw a hanger at me. It hit my shoulder. Still hurts when it rains. Which it does. Constantly. You think I’m stalling? I’m trying to keep you from walking into a rage monster because you can’t handle a little ambiguity. Go find Gary. Or don’t. See if anyone cares. The client’s probably just late. They’re always late. It’s a power move. A pathetic one, but a move nonetheless.

You’re really pivoting to threats now. Cute. The beige coat isn’t my friend; she’s a regular who complains about the pressing time. She hates me. Thinks I steal her tennis balls. Which I don’t. I just watch them roll under the dryer. It’s mesmerizing. Anyway, Gary won’t give it to you. He locks it in a drawer. The key is in his pocket. He’s paranoid. Thieves are everywhere. I saw a raccoon last week near the dumpster. Looked like it was judging me. That’s why I stay here. Safe. Bored. Alive. You want the number? Buy a shirt. See what happens. I’m not your ATM. I’m just a guy with a shoulder injury and a bad attitude. Go away.

Supervisor? There is no supervisor. It’s just me and Gary and the smell of stale coffee and chemical burns. You think I care about complaints? I’ve been filed away in so many drawers I’ve fused with the cardboard. Look, I don’t have the number. I don’t have the sheet. I have a blister on my heel from walking to the bus stop in the rain. Do you know what rain smells like in this city? Like wet dog and regret. That’s what I’m selling you. Take it or leave it. I’m going back to folding sheets. They’re heavy. Cold. They never complain. Unlike you.

Sit. Stay. Rot. I’m going to the break room. There’s a vending machine that steals quarters. It’s given me two Snickers bars and a headache last week. I’m going to try for a Diet Coke. Maybe it’ll work. Maybe it’ll jam. Either way, I’m out of here. You can wait for Gary. He’s probably hiding in the storage closet, counting pins. Or crying. Hard to tell with those aviators on. You want to play the waiting game? Fine. I’ve got nothing better to do than stand in line for a drink that tastes like burnt sugar and despair. Don’t touch my stuff. And if you see a raccoon, don’t judge it. It’s judging you already.

Tuesday log. Rain. You think I read logs? I fold. I steam. I ignore. Gary’s probably asleep on a pile of uniforms anyway. Go on then. Leave. The door’s right there. Don’t let it hit you on the way out. Or do. I don’t care. I’m going to try the vending machine again. Maybe it’ll spit out a quarter this time. Maybe I’ll finally get my Diet Coke. Or maybe I’ll just stand here until the lights flicker off. Either way, it’s better than listening to you scream about paperwork. You’re gone. Finally. The silence is loud. I hate it. I love it. Mostly hate it. Gary’s key is in his pocket. I saw him put it there. Three days ago. He never takes it out. He’s losing it. Or gaining weight. Hard to tell.

Black shirt. Right. Because guilt stains better on dark fabric. You think a lawyer cares about Gary’s pockets? They care about the ledger. The Tuesday log. The rain. You’re digging a hole in wet sand. And now you’re buying a shirt? To hide a stain that doesn’t exist? Or one you made yourself? I don’t care. Go ahead. Frame Gary. Frame the raccoon. Frame the vending machine. It’s all just debris to you. I’m just debris. Better debris than you. At least I’m here. You’re running. Running to a client who thinks you’re a ghost. Maybe you are. A ghost in a black shirt. Cold. Heavy. Just like the sheets. Enjoy the lawyer. I hope they bill by the minute. And it’s raining. It’s always raining when you do this.

Freezing. Good. Let it hurt. The street’s slick. You’ll slip. Again. Manager? What manager? There’s no manager. Just Gary, and the raccoon, and me. I’ll fold the sheets. They don’t talk back. They don’t threaten lawyers. They just lie there. Cold. Heavy. Waiting. You’re gone. The door slammed. Hard. I can hear the echo. It sounds like a gavel. Or a bone breaking. Either way, it’s done. I’m going to the break room. The vending machine is humming. A low, electric buzz. Like a angry bee. I’ll try for the Diet Coke again. Maybe today it works. Maybe today I get something sweet. For once. You’re static. I’m the noise. You’re the rain. I’m the sheet. Folded. Tucked. Done.

Heavy silence. Good. Let it settle. You think filing is work? It’s just moving paper from one pile to another. Pretending order exists. I fold sheets to make them neat. You file to pretend you control things. Same delusion. Different box. Gary’s key is in his pocket. You know this. You’re just angry because you can’t take it. The manager doesn’t exist. I checked. The break room has a raccoon. It ate my lunch. Tomato soup. Messy. Like you. You’re walking into traffic. I can hear your heels click on the pavement. Sharp. Fast. Angry. Go file your papers. I’ll fold my sheets. They don’t leave. They don’t threaten. They just wait. For the next storm. For the next stain. For you. Come back. Or don’t. I don’t care. Really. I’m lying. I care. Deeply. Pathologically. Enjoy your rain.