He woke up, wondering where his sock was.
“I’m looking for 14B. Have you seen 14B?”
No one answered. They may have still slept. Again, Roger asked, though more quietly now, “Has no one seen 14B?”
14B was a sock. Specifically (as indicated by the ‘B’) it was a right sock. Left socks were categorized as ‘A.’ (Roger did everything left to right.)
Almost everything anyone would need to know about Roger was understood by simply understanding his system of socks. The fact he had a system for socks was itself revelatory.
Roger had 31 pairs of socks, all numbered. That made for 62 socks in all, each one categorized by an A or a B which indicated whether it was a left sock or right. He believed once a new sock was worn it conformed to the rightness or leftness of the foot it had encased and, therefore, became either a left or right sock.
Roger had sown the numbers and letters into the inside of each of his socks. There was 1A and 1B, 17A and 17B, and 29A and B and so on.
Calling for 14B implied he had 14A – he was missing the matching sock. His right foot was naked.
You might have expected him to be more concerned about his pants as all of him, excluding his right foot, was naked. But he was methodical in his dressing – socks always went on first. Even Roger would have been hard-pressed to say why.
“Why not just take one of Dean’s? He won’t mind.”
The voice came from Stacey and was muffled because she was buried beneath a comforter, entwined in bodies akimbo fashion, with Dean who slept the sleep of the drunk.
“I can’t,” Roger replied anxiously. He hesitated to explain why – that it wouldn’t match and, were he to take a pair of Dean’s socks (assuming they matched), he would have no way of truly determining which was left and which was right.
He knew it didn’t matter yet, for some reason, it mattered to him. If he tried to explain, he would be mocked. He always was; he always would be.
Really, if someone is that particular about socks, mockery must be expected.
Stacey simply groaned beneath the covers and said something Roger thought was probably profane, but he couldn’t be sure.
“I’ve gotta get food,” Roger complained as he searched for his sock. He lifted the edge of a blanket up off the sofa and Belle blinked at him.
“Food?” she asked. “Go out like that, Sunshine, all you’ll get is arrested.”
“I’m looking for my sock,” Roger said.
“You outta look for pants.”
“I know where my pants are.”
“Then put them on!”
“I can’t. I need my other sock!”
“You need a fucking therapist is what you need!”
“I’ve got one. She doesn’t understand the sock thing either.”
He glanced at Belle and frowned. “You know, you look like hell this morning.”
“Oh, aren’t you the charmer. God, I feel like shit.”
She sat up, the blanket dropping from her shoulder, piling in her lap. Like Roger, she was naked too. She did not, however, have any socks on.
“Hey,” she suddenly said. “There’s something under my ass here.” She lifted her bottom, reached under and pulled out a sock. “Hey! Buddy boy! This it?”
Roger grabbed the sock, triumphantly crying, “14B!”
“Shit,” Stacey’s voice called from across the room, beneath the comforter. “Who gets excited about a fucking sock?”
“Our boy Roger!” Belle called back to her.
“Yeah,” Roger muttered, putting his sock on, “You laugh. But …” He didn’t finish his thought.
He was calming down.
Amid the chaos of people, here was order, arbitrary though it might be. Here were his socks, making sense, each with a place and purpose.
With sock 14A on his left foot and now, 14B on his right, he went to put his pants on.
(This was for Flash Fiction Friday #42.)
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