My Dirty Hands

Standing in the bottle return area.

At the wash basin.

I'm in WalMart.

It's six am.

I thought I was alone.

Aren't I always alone?

Scrubbing and scrubbing.

Pumping more soap.

More antibacterial orange thick ass shit.

Scrubbing.

Thinking, I can't get my hands clean.

Why won't my hands come clean?

She steps up behind me.

She looks like me.

Dressed like me.

Black shirt, red bandana, dark grey shorts, black combat boots.

I stare.

She sounds like me.

"What you looking at?" She pops off.

"Huh, me? Not shit. Why, what's up?" I stumbled.

I know I was staring.

"You're staring at me. What?"

I realized that I was looking through her.

"You will never get them clean."

She tells me, almost sympathetically.

I still scrubbed relentlessly.

She sighed, shook her head and walked away.

I finished the ritual.

Cashed in my tickets.

Got into my car

Looked into the rear view mirror as I reversed.

There she was again.

Shocked and shaken.

"I've got to be mistaken."

This I said out loud.

I jumped out of the car and looked in the back seat.

I was alone.

I knew I was alone, always alone.

Laughing I got back in and l drove away, still looking back.

Be still my mind, I told myself.

My thoughts still running back to her.

To my reflection resembling her.

Her clothes, her style.

Her voice sounding like me.

Stopping by the side of the road, collecting one, two, three, four empty bottles.

One, two empty cans.

Questioning why I'm counting them.

To settle my thoughts.

Cushion my mind, I tell myself.

Ease the blows that reality seems to hand me so fucking easily.

Masquerading.

"It's all gonna be okay. Just a matter of time."

My new mantra.

Say. Repeat. Say. As needed.

This time I'm at Meijer.

It's after midnight.

The bottle room is empty.

Not a soul in the parking lot but me, I think.

Sighing, looking around, gotta keep moving.

Putting on my gloves.

They are dirty.

They cover my dirty hands.

One trash bin at a time.

Collecting recyclables.

Collecting hope.

Sorting out my findings.

Couple of lamps, a chair, DVD player, a television.

Scrap.

Cashing in my empties.

Taking my tickets, adding them up in my head.

At the wash basin.

Lost in my ritual.

Scrubbing so hard my hands turn red.

They hurt.

Tears fall from my eyes.

They splash back at me in the stainless steel tub.

I didn't even realize I was crying.

I felt a hand on my shoulder.

It's her again.

Softly, she takes me in.

Holding me.

Rocking me.

Soothing me, consoling me.

Whispering away my worries.

I feel her breathe.

I smell the mint.

Something about her is so familiar.

I step back, wipe away my wetness.

Embarrassed by my weaknesses.

She smiles at my recognition.

I'm staring again.

She tells me, "I told you so."

I asked her, "What do you mean you told me so? Told me what? When?"

"Your relentless scrubbing. What are you doing?" She asked.

"Trying to get them clean. They won't come fucking clean."

I put my hands up for her to inspect.

She mechanically takes my hands and looks at both sides and lets them go.

She snickers, "You don't get it do you? They won't come clean ever again. Not really clean. Not like before. Nothing will ever be like before again. You can't erase what you have seen. You can't give back the experience of how you have had to survive. They won't come clean no matter how hard you try."

I looked down at my hands, that have aged so dramatically over the last few months.

Weathered, rough, dry.

I pump more thick ass orange soap on them and rub.

A draft comes in under the door that makes me shiver.

I am looking for her over my shoulder.

After a moment I realize that she has gone again.

Drying my hands, looking at my watch.

It's only been seventeen minutes.

I gather my trash bags, clean up my mess.

Saving the tickets for later.

I'm out the door to begin again.

This merry go round.

This rollercoaster ride.

She walks with me now.

Holding my hand.

Every where I go, she keeps me sane.

Reminding me of my mantra.

Say. Repeat. Say.

It's so very needed.

I depend on her courage.

She's the me I need to be.

Coaches me not to obsess.

To tackle life one step at a time.

To value the day, appreciate the time.

Make the most of nothing.

Understand my losses.

Cherish my gains.

Strive for a better tomorrow.

"You better come out fighting,"

I hear her say as I pull the car out of the parking lot.

I look both ways.

Down roads I've traveled so often.

So frequently.

I decide to go straight, see what I can find.

Hope in reshaped plastic.

Strength in steel.

Life in empty cans and bottles.

My hands will never be clean.

This I've earned.

This I've busted my ass for.

Harder than I ever have.

This I know now, I must accept.

My dirty hands.