The Life of A Sock

The Life of a Sock

2697 words

It was her mistake, though I am loathe to fault her now. She was only the cleaning woman. How could she have known our significance to him? She did go back to the laundry room to inspect the washer and dryer she had used to try to find my mate, so, I imagine she did all she could. I don’t hold anything against her any longer. I hope he doesn’t as well. Socks do separate in washing machines. That is a fact of life. Just like how you never get all the sand out of your beach bag or how water bugs just appear from nowhere, you never see them coming. It’s a simple truth. But I’m not a philosopher; I’m just a sock- a sock without a partner.

When she starting pairing up the socks after folding the rest of the laundry I could feel her happiness. She was singing along to songs in Spanish ( I can’t tell you their names, but they were pretty songs, rhythmical and melodic. I’m a straight up jazz type of sock. You know, Coltrane, Davis, Monk). Anyway, I was enjoying my ocean breeze freshness waiting for her sure hands to bring me back together with my mate and roll us into our cocoon. We had gotten stuck under my owner’s sweaty, workout clothes in the hamper and, believe me, after a week in that type of odoriferous confinement all I could think about was returning to our place at the front of the sock drawer. Imagine my horror when all the clothes were folded and there I was, alone, a solitary sock at the bottom of the basket.

If I were an ordinary sock like those horrid crew socks he wears while working out, perhaps this would not be such a shock. But I wasn’t one of those twelve-pack discount socks that end up as cleaning rags. Nor was I one of those low-cut socks everyone seems to like to wear these days. You know the kind that nobody even knows you’re wearing socks. No sir! I, I mean we, were the kind of pair anyone would want to show off. How often have you seen fuchsia socks flow into red at the toe with spring flowers cascading down and around like a spring shower? What else would you notice? Our heels and toes, right? Yes, they were handstitched into the sock. Yet we were mostly soft cotton with some synthetics thrown in for strength and durability. He loved how we made his feet feel. No barking dogs after a day with us, no way. No one would have believed we were six years old. That’s right. Six.

I remember watching her search for my partner. She stopped singing as she got up and lifted the chair cushion to see if it was there. Then she opened the laundry bag and shook it to check if my mate would fall out. She got down on all fours to see if it had fallen under the chair. She got up and put her arms akimbo and looked around the room. I heard her say,

“Coño!”

I didn’t know what that meant, but I could tell she was upset. That’s when she decided to return to the laundry room to check the washers. I had seen this happen to some of the other socks, not often mind you, but hadn’t paid any attention back then. Perhaps, I could have shown a bit more empathy, offered my pity for their plight. I didn’t. Now here I was without my mate, the only one in the whole world I had any reason to care about, and I could feel the disdain and, dare I say, self-righteousness of my back of the drawer companions. I could hear their whispers. “Serves him right. Never cared about anything but himself. Look at him now as useless as a church bell without a clapper.” The crew socks, in their burly, ribbed way, huddled together chuckling at my fate. The other dress socks looked away, acting as if they didn’t see me. I couldn’t tell if they felt sorry for me or if they were truly indifferent.

“Hey! Do you see what’s going on here?” I yelled. Not a single sock responded. I was met by silence, my plea gone unheard. “Okay, okay,” I said. “Go ahead, ignore me. When she gets back with my mate you all will feel the full brunt of my wrath. You think I was mean before this? You haven’t seen anything!” I had never issued an ultimatum like this before and wasn’t certain what I was capable of, but my fury had overtaken my ability to think. I could feel my heels steaming and my synthetic strands felt like burning tendrils. I thought I heard a snicker. “What was that!!” I screamed, my fuchsia flaring.

To my dismay, she returned from the laundry room empty-handed. I didn’t understand. Where was my mate? She’d been washing us our whole life and nothing like this had ever happened. How could she have been so careless? We were her favorites. She always had saved us for last, smoothing us with her palm, then rolling us into a tight ball. Sometimes she would rub our fabric against her face to feel our silky smoothness. She began placing all the other pairs in his sock drawer leaving me to my lonesomeness. Not a single pair offered any solace or comfort as they disappeared from my sight. All seemed jolly in their pristine state. I wanted to cry out and wondered if my mate had been mistakenly balled into another sock. He never would have abandoned me on purpose. I didn’t though. I had my pride.

When she was done, she picked up the basket and scooped me out like a gambler picking up her chips. Clenching me, nearly choking me, she stuffed me into a pocket of her apron alongside some used tissues and a pack of cigarettes. I got really nervous then as I realized my plight, my complete and utter uselessness as a single sock, even one as beautiful as I. Was she going to trash me? How would she explain my disappearance to him? He would be looking for me, for us, that I am sure.

I could barely make out the conversation she had with him that evening before she left. She had stuffed her apron with me in it into her travel bag and even as I strained to listen, all I could decipher were muffled sounds and occasional words.

“Ummph enna mpgh eh sure?”

“Si, I mmphgg evksmena.”

“No wiies. Things mmmen.”

I felt my synthetics contracting. I felt as if I were a meal for a constrictor, that’s how tight the feeling in my toes became. What were they saying? Didn’t he want to see me? Wasn’t he going to search for my twin while I was safely nestled in my rightful place at the front of the sock drawer? And this is a thought I hadn’t entertained until that moment- wouldn’t he want to retire me and simply admire my beauty from time to time. I could imagine him framing me and placing me on the wall above his bureau. This was not a far-fetched thought as I had seen some of his not-so beautiful wall hangings, perhaps none uglier than the envelope with faded stamps all over it. Why would hanging a sock, an exquisite sock of beauty and refinement, be an extravagance? I heard the zipper of her bag rip open and her rough hand pulled me out. I felt relief. Soon I would return to my warm place. I wasn’t like those other socks who met some other fate when separated from their mate. I was a work of art. I knew he appreciated that. Rather than hand me over to him, however, she started towards the door holding me like a dead bird in a cat’s mouth. What was going on? “Ok, Senor. See you two weeks. Bye.”

“Goodbye, Ada. In two weeks then.” He shut the door behind us. Where was she taking me? Why hadn’t he kept me? I could feel my cotton sagging out of me. I was limp. I wanted to scream for help, but there was no one there. We got on the elevator. Oh, the indignity of it all. She used me to press the “B” button and then she began wiping a smudge on the brass plate. I, who had been the prize of the sock drawer, the most expensive and attractive of all his socks, was now reduced to a cleaning rag. How could she? All because my twin could not find it reasonable to stay close to me as we tumbled through the wash.

If anyone were to blame, it would be my mate. I remember the exact moment he decided he wanted to hang with the other socks during the rinse cycle. I told him he could go if he wanted (it’s true the athletic socks seemed to be fun even if I never deigned to partake of their locker room humor), but I didn’t understand why he didn’t want to stay with me. I told him to mind himself lest those others should lose the respect we had established by our favored position. He had told me not to worry. He said he could fraternize with them without diminishing the esteem they held for us. In fact, he said, they would be even more willing to maintain our favored place in our owner’s life if he spent a few moments with them. He reminded me of how many of those always serious black and grey socks he had accumulated (and wore almost daily) and how they were encroaching on our space. He said we needed to maintain the right balance in the drawer. “Relax,” he said. “It’s only for two minutes. Enjoy your spin.” That was the last I heard from him.

I listened as her heels clicked along the basement floor and the whirr of the wheels of her bag followed behind us. I wished I had never let him go. When she stopped, I looked up afraid of what I might see. We were standing in front of a clothes bin. The next thing I knew I was in complete darkness lying still against what I could only determine was a bloated plastic bag. I heard her heels fading away and her roller bag became a faint, indistinct rasp until I could hear them no more. As my eyes became adjusted to the darkness, I could begin to see shapes. I realized I was in a heap of discarded clothing, old hats frayed around their brims, blouses with stains in prominent places, pants that no longer fit. I had heard about these bins all my life. All of the clothing had. I really didn’t believe they existed, though. I had never entertained the horrifying thought that this could be my fate. Yet there I was.

I looked around. I clung to the desperate hope that maybe my twin would be in here with me and we would reunite. A pair of women’s shoes lying on their sides, the tips of their heels smashed from overuse, one of their buckles missing a latch, looked over at me with what I could only describe as pity. I avoided looking at them. They were a pair of those knock-off shoes. I could see the inferior construction, the poor quality of the faux-leather. They seemed to want to talk, I guess to commiserate. I turned my back. I didn’t care if they were annoyed. I had never associated with the likes of them in my life and I was not about to start then.

My wish to find my mate wandering in this purgatory of abandoned apparel proved foolish. I was lost, alone, and, although this thought was slow to materialize and frightening to articulate, useless. As the realization settled upon me, I opened my eyes to the others in my predicament. I could see them for who they were- the elderly, the confused, the tired and worn out, the stained, the unused, the lost. I felt myself sag, crumble. I no longer felt elastic and bouncy.

I felt tears welling from deep within and though I had prided myself on my sang-froid, I succumbed to my wretched condition. I began to cry until it transformed into wailing. I must have triggered some others in that dreadful bin as a chorus of despondent keening filled the stuffy air. I wanted them to shut up. How dare they think their suffering was comparable to mine? At that moment, as I lay screaming bootless cries, the acrylic sole of those dime-store clodhoppers smashed down on me, choking the air from my lungs. And there I remained, listening to the sniffles of other disconsolate clothing, but also hearing the derisive laughter of those shoes ringing in my ears.

Unable to cry out or break free from the chokehold, I no longer wished to live. My owner had forsaken me; my mate had abandoned me. I, who had once waltzed at cotillions, who had stridden across the floors of fine restaurants, who had sunk my toes into fine silk rugs, now left here to die among this rabble of unwashed uselessness. I closed my eyes and waited for the end.

After some time and death not forthcoming, light blistered the darkness causing a restless concern among all the bin’s inmates. Bags and clothes above me were being picked out. I remember feeling a sense of elation. My cries had been heard. He was coming to rescue me, to return me to my proper place. I felt the shoes lifted off my throat. “Here, here I am,” I croaked. “I’m here. I forgive you. Get me out of here.” A human hand grabbed me. I felt a rush of happiness. I summoned all my remaining strength to show I had survived with little damage, sucking in my loose cotton. I wanted him to be proud of me.

I found myself aloft, not in my owner’s hands. As I tumbled through the air, I wished for a speedy death. I plunged and landed in a puddle of deep, raw effluence causing me to swallow and sending me into a paroxysm of chokes and gasps. A flush of fresh water heaved me from the puddle sending me on a ride downhill until I came to a stop wrapped around the thick arms of a sewer grate. I remained stuck to that grate for days, perhaps weeks, before I regained consciousness. I had survived the tsunami, it appeared.

I spend my days now inside a worn sneaker that has holes at the sides and heels. I have not bathed since that fateful washday. I can’t stand myself. If I am not dead, then I smell as if I am. My reinforced heel and toe stitches have lost their tensile strength. My synthetic gave out from the wear and tear leaving my cotton to sag like a weeping willow in full bloom. Worst of all, the lovely flowers spiraling down the sides seem forever crushed under the weight of the impotent cotton.

Today, I saw a lone glove crushed under the wheel of a truck. Yesterday, a single shoe without laces, its tongue outstretched as if begging for drink, lay entangled among a dry puddle of fallen leaves. Last week, a pile of clothes ripped from inside a trash bag lay strewn in the gutter alongside upended trash bins. I notice them all now. Passersby, their fine hosiery snugly wrapping their legs, walk over or around these discarded heaps. As my new owner drags his feet across the scabrous pavement, I think about my past, my lost mate, my former owner. And yes, I even think about Ada. I think about the other socks, even the displaced clothes in the bin. I am chastened by my consciousness as I reflect upon my pride. If only I hadn’t been so haughty. All I can now do is pray for forgiveness as I await my ineluctable doom.