Tonight I took someone’s sock from the laundry room. His laundry was sitting on the table that I donated to the facilities when I moved into my apartment. The previous resident left the table in my place and Formica didn’t fit into my decorating vocabulary. The sock lay at the top of the pile, calling out to me when I entered the laundry room. Several hours later, when I went to retrieve my clothes from the dryer, the sock beckoned to me again.

“Take me,” the sock said. I could barely hear it over the din of the dryer’s thumping. I wondered, “Did I hear something?” And then I heard a loud Buzzzzzz! My clothes were done.

“C’mon, take me!” I heard in the silence.

I turned around to face the heap of laundry that appeared to be speaking to me. A white athletic sock lying next to a denim oxford caught my attention. “Take me with you, I want to see the world,” the sock beseeched me.

I looked around at the clinical surroundings – the laundry room was sparse and overly lit. I couldn’t blame the sock for wanting to escape. The poor thing had been completely forgotten for hours and was obviously not important to its owner. “Who would leave their clothes in the laundry room all evening?” I asked the sock with sympathy. Everyone knows that laundry room etiquette dictates prompt removal of garments. I’m sure the pile of clothes had been removed from the dryer and left in a heap upon the table hours before. For all I knew, the pile of clothes might have been there since yesterday.

I stared at the sock for a moment. “Do you know what you’re asking me to do?” I questioned. “You’re not only asking me to steal, but also to send your master into a state of utter confusion.” We are all perplexed by the disappearance of socks. Their vanishing is equally confounding as the nature of the universe. Don’t deny it. We never know where they go and we faithfully save their mates in case we miraculously come across them some day. I’ve heard rumors that they all end up in an asteroid belt made of socks, endlessly circling the planet. At least, that’s what my boyfriend’s mother told him. Perhaps shooting stars are really socks trying to return to their beloved owners down below. Nevertheless, we never find the missing socks – they rarely successfully return to their home, but still we labor on.

“Who cares? No one will know it was you who freed me,” the sock replied. I couldn’t place the accent. The sock had a point. Let’s call it “Sporty” from now to make things easier. Sporty had a point. There was absolutely no one around to see the emancipation.

“I’ll probably regret this later,” I said, “but why the hell not?” I grabbed Sporty by its neck. I noticed that the elastic around the top seemed to be stretched out and upon the brink of uselessness. I realized its days were probably numbered and felt all the more resolute in my decision to rescue Sporty from the forgotten pile.

I quickly scanned the heap of laundry for its mate. “Don’t you care about the other sock?” I asked Sporty.

“Do it now. Take me!” Sporty demanded. “I don’t even know who my mate is! There are 9 other socks in this pile that look exactly like me.”
It was true. There were many other white athletic socks, all with gray heels and relaxed elasticity, just like Sporty. I plunged the sock into the protection of my own laundry and left the rest of the pile to await its owner in the solitude of the empty laundry room.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I thought to myself as I approached my apartment. There was still time to take Sporty back to its rightful place without the risk of Karmic reward. Imagine Sporty’s owner, folding his clothes and wondering what had happened to the 10th athletic sock he was sure he put into the washer and dryer. It’s easy to envision. We’ve all stood over our sock drawers with dismay that somehow we’d become burdened with yet another single sock. It never seems possible that despite our best efforts, socks always seem to get lost.

“Sshhhhh!” Sporty admonished me. “You’re home free now. Stop thinking so much! It’s so typical of you to over-think things. You’ve always been so practical, playing by the rules. Live a little!”

Again, the sock had a point. How the hell did Sporty know so much about me, anyway? I placed the sock on a chair so I won’t forget that I have it. Poor Sporty is always being forgotten. I figure I can always return it to the laundry room, maybe tomorrow, when I feel ashamed of what I’ve done – IF I feel ashamed at all, that is.

Thinking back to the last time I encountered a missing sock, I remember finding a cotton yellow number, a foreigner to my monochromatic, dark collection. I put the sock on the shelf that everyone in my building uses for returning vagrant clothing and placing objects like plants and dishes that are up for grabs. I once found a pair of my underwear in this very place. I was a bit embarrassed to find my panties displayed on the shelf for all to see, but was grateful for their safe return. Humanity instantly scored a point in my skeptical mind because one individual had the compassion to put my undies in the communal give away / lost and found pile.

When I found the yellow sock, I had no idea how it got mixed up with my stuff. Actually, I still don’t. But the fact is, on that night, I felt I’d come a little closer to understanding the mystery of the missing sock phenomenon – I’d actually discovered one hiding amongst my jeans and t-shirts. Perhaps they didn’t circle the globe in space after all. I could only imagine the homes my missing socks had found over the years. I’m sure that in the end, it was the garbage. Who needs a single sock that matches nothing that they own?

Back to Story Index >