Yesterday at the coin laundry, which despite any other improvement in station I still patronize as long as my in-laws insist on hanging their wash outside a million-dollar home, I made what can only be described as a noob mistake by failing to secure a cart in the Sunday afternoon rush and had to load my dryers by several trips with handfuls of dropped socks or shorts. Later I overheard a woman who sought to avoid my frustration approach another Black couple and ask to borrow theirs, thanking them afterward by addressing them “my darlings.” This group camaraderie must’ve made its way into my subconscious last night when I brokered a meeting between two fellows, both with red hair. One was a graphic designer who dropped out of school but now ran a successful business, and when he and his large ginger female co-worker bid farewell to their new acquaintance with kisses on the mouth, they turned to me slyly and said something to the effect that I wouldn’t understand.
A short follow-up ensued whereby my other friend, whose last name was Johnson, explained his reluctance to get involved with another family of redheads with the same surname. A resident matriarch assured him there was no concern, as he wasn’t nearly as good-looking, followed by a pause for audience laughter.