Shut-In Detective and Case of the Once-Dirty Laundry

The name is Dick. Private Dick. Sounds much dirtier than Public Dick although, come to think of it, you could get in a lot more handcuffed trouble for the latter. Just Dick in and of itself, sheesh. Those poor boys whose mothers thought that Richard was such a noble name.

But you know that don’t ya, Sweet ‘Art? You came to me already with some trouble and the trouble was that the clothes are stained. You do that so well, dontcha? But that’s not the trouble, the trouble was that you thought the clothes might be stepping out on you, sneaking around your back and coming up clean. You had no proof but women’s intuition but you could sense another woman’s scent on them, a scent not your own, I got it right? A downy fresh scent. Maybe the scent of one of those slutty, little, fluffy and giggly teddy bear types.

So I put a tail on his ass. You betcha I did and I got some answers. They may not be what you want to hear, ma’am, but can’t be as bad as you fear. No, don’t open the envelope. You need to be sitting down for the pictures, you need to be prepped. So I tailed ‘em. Turns out right to the spot you said they’d be—The Washing Machine—a somewhat linty and humid dive right off the kitchen. It seemed everything was locked down pretty tight and hidden behind closed doors but from the noise of the place, it was jumpin alright, jumpin straight into deep shit. ‘Scuse me. I managed to get my foot in the door, rather my hand in the door, rather when my hand got in the door everybody froze—noise, movement, everything just halted. Closed the door—all resumed. Opened it again—ice, frozen like ice. It was like I was a cop walking into a speakeasy—no one was speaking easy. There was lots of noise, I’d open the door—silent and still. Close it—lots of noise, open it—silent and still.

Seems there was a secret pass code, a key of sorts that fit into a tiny slot to the right of the door, makes the door think it’s shut, see? Some key that would make every one think the door was all safe and snug so they could go on with their fornicating. No one can freeze old Dick out for too long. I tried my finger in the slot but no good, too big. I ended up jimmying it up with the end of a wooden chopstick leftover from take-out, hope you don’t mind. And then, sure enough, the show began again. Well, the pictures tell the tale but yes, they were wet and yes, they were lathered. I did my best to turn away from the lurid spectacle but their dancing was so mesmerizing, primal really.

From there, it was over to next door—The Dryer—for sobering up, for erasing the evidence of that slick and splashy cavorting. I tried my chopstick trick but it seemed they’d grown wise. They all flew out to attack me, all heavy jeans with hot, metal buttons and rivets.

Yeah, Doll. I know it’s not what you wanted to hear but perhaps now you can sleep at night. It’s not my business whether you stay with this no good laundry or not. Perhaps you can get them to go back to you, back to the passionate hand-wringing and drip-drying of the honeymoon era. But Dick is always here for ya. My rate is 73 ½ cents an hour but the undressing you with my eyes, of course, is free of charge.