Armrest darts into the bathroom. The shower runs. It always runs. He rips his clothes off and flings himself into the shower. The water is scalding hot. Vigorously, quickly, he scrubs his entire body. Fewer than two minutes later he emerges from the shower, red and steaming. Wrapping a thick robe around his body, he goes downstairs. He opens the door to his library. Inside, a dust storm rages. Swirling, dark and foreboding, it threatens to spill out and infect the rest of the house’s sterility. With a brief cry of alarm, Armrest slams the door, charges over to the couch and sits. Hopping up and down, he beats his hands against his thighs and chants, “Unclean. Unclean. Unclean! UNCLEAN!” Already, he has worked up a sweat and can feel the particles of the dust storm rubbing against his fingertips. He has to go take another shower. The front door flies open and an army of twelve men, all wearing black sweatsuits and bright red running shoes, pulls him from the couch and out into the street.
“Filth! Filth!” they shout in unison. One man (they all look the same, have the same bland and smiling face) brandishes a bucket of tar at Armrest.
“No!” Armrest shouts.
“Yes!” the twelve men cry in unison.
They strip him from his robe and coat him in the warm tar. Another man exposes a pillow he has hidden behind his back. He rips open the pillow and showers Armrest in the feathers. Armrest doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know the meaning of this. The men all strip off their sweatshirts and tie them around their waists. They stand in a half- circle. One man toward the middle pulls out a pack of cigarettes and passes it around. Armrest creeps away from the men. They make no attempt to catch him.
Armrest watches the men from the front door, standing around smoking and laughing. He wants to go up and take a shower. The tar is hardening on him, the feathers becoming mired in its solidity. Armrest likes the feeling. It becomes like a suit of armor. Brazenly, he throws open the door to his library. The dust storm swarms him but he can’t feel it, the granules unable to penetrate the thick layer of tar. Armrest pulls a book filled with gibberish and lacking a title or an author from a shelf. He sits in his chair by the front window and looks out at the circle of smoking men. They are now taking turns punching each other in the face. Armrest flips open the book and begins to read, knowing, one day, he’ll have to shower again. He wonders how many showers it will take to remove all the tar and feathers and dust and realizes he doesn’t care.
