Joey Alexander knows he is good (fornothing) wrote in rooms,
Re: Log: Joey / Maggie
Joey got the kinks out of a bloodied sheet at the bottom of that laundry pile whilst kneeling on cement scalded by the summer that throttled them. Denim collected dirt from the ground and red claymud from the bottom of boots that left their print fucking everywhere, it joined the tiger stripes of engine grease that marked fabric where it faded, thinner and paler at the knee. He used the sheet like a hobo bandana, gathering the ends so that it parachuted wide with the dirty clothing and sheets in the middle. Easy to drag, but Joey hefted it over his shoulder in a no-nonsense pursuit of the prison kitchen. Wordless and quick, only the tense line of his shoulders confirmed that he knew she was behind him. Joey wasn't the only one here who didn't talk much, it didn't seem strange to him. Really, the prison seemed more populated with people that would talk you to fucking hell and back.. but he supposed anyone could seem damn talkative when there was a mute kid on the cell block.
A kitchen might not have been the most ideal place to do this kind of chore, but there were sinks and counter space there. He remembered long counters at the neighborhood laundromat from his youth. The place where quarter machines dotted the wall, swallowing spare change found it pockets in order to entertain the children while the poor grandmothers sorted colors and whites on those long countertops, talking in Spanish. This was nothing like that. Joey heaved the laundry atop the formica. "Run some water," he said with a tick of his chin toward the adjoining industrial-size sink.