Lost In Transition

A few months ago I woke up itchy all over my legs. It was really bad. There might as well have been a homeless man sleeping with me, because I'm sure his situation is not any better. Although, he probably has them all over his body. In his mouth, in between his toes and crawling in and out of his anus hole like ants on parade. However, it was not from a homeless man, because when I checked every morning it was just me.
"Its Bugs!" I'd say the next morning. Convinced I was right, though I rarely was, even though this time was different, I began looking closely at my sheets, daily, with my desk lamp. Any little speck could have been a bug, but upon investigation, most turned out to be just skin, hair, or thread. No bugs, but not good enough. After I vacuumed the mattress all over, under the seams and in the crevices, I felt a little better. I actually thought I'd get a better sleep and not itch and scratch my itchy-ass legs. I woke the next day even worse and did not know what to do. The sheets were still new- only a few months old. "Still itchy," I told Paul and Brigid, walking out of my room late. "I just don't get it." They were already up. I had not slept well. Paul's eyes hardly moved from their steady position of "Steve Wilcos," on TV. " Have you washed them?" Brigid asked, looking up at me. " Yeah, but they are still new. - Only a few months old "
"When was the last time you washed them?" She asked.
"I don't know... like three months ago. I think?" Paul's eyes slowly shifted from Steve to me. They both looked at me like a was holding some kind of wild, jungle lizard.
"Hueso," Brigid began. "You have to wash your sheets every 2 weeks. -Sometimes every week."
"I haven't been doing that," I told them both. "I did not know this."
"Yeah, pal. Thats why you are getting the itchies," Paul finally chimed in.
Feeling better that maybe I had figured it all out, I tore them off the mattress and put them in my dirty clothes pile. Three weeks later we did the laundry and for the first time, I was actually excited to do it. That night, I put my sheets back on, feeling positive. And for the first time in a while, I got a good night sleep.
About a week later, I woke up with something feeling like a bug bite. It felt the same as before. Like bugs. I was itching. Maybe I didn't vacuum well enough, I thought. So, I washed them, yet again, feeling agitated about the whole thing. And it was the same thing.
After a group meeting, we came to the conclusion that the sheets must go. Maybe something in the dye was bothering me. Or maybe, it was that they were made in India. No one knew.
I found some loner sheets of paul's that were too small, packed away in a box and planned to use them through the weekend with plans to buy new ones the next week.
Three months later, I asked Paul to just go with me, because apparently I was having problems deciding on some. We found a home-goods store near to our previous apartment. they had a lot of options. At the time, I had been looking at K-Mart sheets and found some cool zebra-patterned ones I really liked. I hope this place would have them, but also tried not to get my hopes up too high. There were three mini-isles full of different kinds, colors and thread count. I began to aimlessly walk around, which is probably why I never got any before. One of the workers was in the area shelving some products. He was on a knee and grunting as he bent down. He was wearing some big red suspenders that I liked. They held his old jeans up, but boy, I wish I had those suspenders. His hair was long. It was some dirty blond color and unusually shiny. I continued to walk around, feeling the different, dirty samples that hung over the packaged ones. Paul asked me what I thought. "I don't know." Then, a low voice of an elderly man rang out, "can I help you two gentlemen find anything?" It was the person who was bent over grunting. This was no ordinary man, though . His hair was not shiny and dirty blond by the nature of our fellow man. It was fake and plastic. It was a wig. A head of lies. Soon, he stood right in front of us, describing the sheets that are, "really, going like hotcakes."
"Really?" I asked. "You must be kidding. At these prices, how could anyone not need more sheets?"
This was the most lost man-in-transition I have seen in a long time. "You see, the great thing about these sheets, is that they are are really stretchy." He made hand motions of being stretchy and the image of him wearing only a diaper popped in my head... "I guarantee they will fit." I saw his old, wrinkled hands as he mimed stretching sheets. They were too weathered to be working in a home-goods store. They belong on the field, harvesting corn or wheat...something like that. He had to have been in his seventies and trying trying to hide the wrinkles on his face with the hottest pink blush his beautician could find in the back of the boutique. It was blinding and really popped out with the deep blue shade of eye shadow, sloppily colored on above his bright blue eyes. He lathered on, what seemed like hours ago, a different shade of hot pink lipstick that differed not enough to his blush. I tried my hardest to not make any sudden movements and throw off his concentration enough to be found out. The "flub-jiggler" that comes with old age, swung to and fro under his chin with the emphasis of his phrases. That and his clothes, were all he appeared to have as part of being a man. I would like to say I wasn't thinking about the "flub-jiggler," and I would like to say that I was concentrating on his speech. I would like to say that. But, I cannot and I'd be a damn lair if I did say I was concentrating on what he had to say. It would only take two fingers to pinch, squeeze, slap and flap that thing all night. Time would fly, but unfortunately I came to work. I accepted everything he had to say, making the right amount of eye contact with him and panning of the store. "Thanks," I told him. It felt really warm in that store, as I backed up and headed in the isle Paul had abandoned me for, a minute before. "Those ones seem pretty nice," he told me. "Yeah. I just with they were softer. They seem stiff."
"They will soften up when you wash them."
"Are you sure?"
"Well," he said, "go ask her, him. Her...umm...hmm...." He stopped and just pointed. I went back to him and as I was about to ask him if they were the best choice, when a call came on his walkie-talkie. "Shelf help is section D," the voice said. Keep it together, Matthew and we will both get through this, I thought. Grabbing the microphone, I noticed his nails couldn't have been more prettily painted. "Stephanie here, I got it," he said to the voice. "Thanks Stephanie," it replied. "I have to get out of here very soon," I told Paul...and myself. I picked the sheets Stephanie told me to get, mostly because he said they were "going like hotcakes," and I know I like hotcakes and like to talk about them. As we headed toward the register to check out, we both stopped and saw Zebra-patterned sheets. "We will feel them?" I declared. I wanted them. Badly. Paul brought up the point that they were less threat count but same price. "But, they are a novelty. And I like novel things," I said, smiling like an ass-clown. "I know and novelty can cost a lot," he countered.
"Fine." So we walked out with my new sheets. Only took half a year!

...Thanks Stephanie.