Tailored

By Michael Fotos

Creative Writing I
Professor Kolodzey
Rowan University
December 19, 2013

I read about it in the paper, on my way to work. I thought about it while I pressed Mr.
Hansens dress shirt. I made sure the job was completely perfect, going over it a third time. After
all, if he were fortunate to be alive hed want a very pristine suit for the funerals to come. Who
knows? His wife may surely be under the ruble with Joseph Tailmens lover, the pretty boy that
brings in assorted pink shirts every two or three weeks. Hansens daughter of fourteen or that
snobby child he calls a son could very possibly be folded like a completed shirt order, their
bodies pinned with the foundation of buildings that fell. Five in total. Five so far. But alas, the
final load of clothing needed washing and ironing and folding.
I went home that evening eyeing every construction taller than a third story. I tried to
stray clear of them, or run pass avoiding the potential wreckage. I am pleased to announce that I
made it as far as home, a small apartment in a decaying complex. I survived to sit in front of a
nineteen incher, TV dinner in hand. Nothing fell today except morale. Ash and debris are being
worked on and bodies are being counted as they reveal themselves. Im not sure what is worse:
being a dug up corpse or waiting to be one.
According to the news no one knows who is attacking. Its not my people I can assure.
We can barely afford gunpowder in the swamplands of Burma, especially where the Bay of
Bengal seeps into the old attempts at aqueduct construction. The area is more useful as a water
park. Lord knows I have slid down a rock plateau or two, myself. Id kill to have that life again.
Hard work, hard life, but somehow it proves to be simpler than whatever this is. Instead of

keeping a watchful eye for snakes, I have to creep around and toss my body across bomb sites. I
worry about every shake in the ground, every pounce of the neighboring children above my flat.
I remember when my biggest concern was finding a husband for myself. How ironic.
How clever God must be. Ive given up finding my husband. Im sure some hundred and thirty
four pound pebble flew from the sky at a specific mileage and grazed Kunals skull. We werent
together long enough for a child. I suppose not long enough for my suicide either. Perhaps Im
afraid of pain and thats whats holding me back. What does religion say? Is suicide bad? What if
I say its in the name of the lord; will it be okay then?
I lost count of the weeks since the first incident. Four, no it five when the Sheridan
collapsed. I know the Texaco across East Fortieth blew three days ago. I remember the smell.
Kunal has been gone for a long time though. A life has come and gone before me. I see my
mother in her old age. The skin around my eyes droop. The curtains of flesh tangent to the edges
of my lips follow. Hair has dulled. Bones have softened. My mind is lost, pleading to the walls.
Can I, at the very least, get a warning? Can someone tell me an estimated time of death? I
cant stand the waiting. The back and forth of work travel, washing clothes slow enough to last
me months. I havent had a costumer for weeks and yet Mr. Hansens shirt is enough motive to
drag me out of my home and into that dead, dark shop. Why wont anyone just pick up their
laundry? I dont care if they are dead, couldnt they have made a note somewhere to someone:
Hey, Bill, in case I die, can you pick up my dry cleaning, thanks.
The phone is ringing. I probably have to evacuate or something. The floor is shaking
again. Damn kids. Window panes rattle and the sound of whistling heightens. Is this one mine?
Could this be my bomb? Is it my turn? Please, if there is a heaven let this be the bomb with my

name on it. Let it thud, crack open the ceiling of this goddamn place and exchange its liquids and
gases until everything in distance implodes. Let the walls crush my pliable structure. Let my
furniture burst into flame and dance about singeing my flesh and hair until nothing but crusted
marrow remains. Hear my prayer oh joyous explosion and show me your bright yellow lights.
Save me! Bring me to the homeostasis in the sky.
I didnt die. Implosions were plentiful, but I only receive the outskirts of the impact.
Perhaps the next one will get me. One can only dream I suppose. My work place is gone. If I
stayed for overtime I may have died. My home is in ruin. Its still standing some, but it took a
nice blow to the chest. I no longer hear the children upstairs. Im not sure if Mr. Hansen will ask
for his shirt. I hope he doesnt. Id feel pretty bad. That was probably his best shirt. What if he
was saving it for his wife and children? What if he comes looking for it, looking for something to
wear for his family? What do I say to that? How do I react? Oh, Im sorry, Mr. Hansen, I know
your family is expecting you to look nice during their ceremonies, but I lost your shirt. I know, I
know, Ill pay for another. There isnt any time? Id give you the one off my back, but its a mere
hospital gown. You wouldnt want that would you? Its all yours if you do.
I died a week later. No explosion. I just lost a lot of blood and my lungs were full of ash.
No shining light for me. It was painful. I drowned in something. My sides hurt a lot. My back
too. It all faded eventually. Im not sure where it went. Newton said that if there is a force, it
cannot be destroyed. Where did all that pain go? Certainly it didnt just disappear. My pain had
to have gone somewhere. Did I take it with me? Am I still in pain? No. I dont feel much of
anything, except perhaps loneliness. Could that be where all my pain went? Did it transmute into
loneliness?

Where is Mr. Hansen? Id very much so like to apologize to him.