Geoffrey Beene is dead, and I have killed him.
For those who are unaware, Beene is—err, was—a clothing designer who made fairly nice mid-level business clothing.
After my run-in with him doing laundry tonight, he shall no longer breathe on this fair Earth.
I had dropped four loads of laundry when I noticed I still had not placed my grey Beene shirt. The problem arose when I realized the washer with all my nice clothes was already overflowing to capacity.
Immediately in my head I contemplated. Do I dare toss in this shirt along with the non-nice clothing? There wouldn't be a problem with it, except the shirt dictates ""Wash with like clothing.""
I figured a wash with other clothing was better than battling it out for water with other nice clothing, so into the mix it went.
A little prayer was uttered as the clothing mixed together. It was my way of saying ""Hey, Mr. Beene, just because you require a shirt stay to look nice doesn't mean you're better than my other clothing (although he is). You will fit in just as well with my Bob Dylan and Christopher Walken T-shirts.""
I knew I was lying to the shirt, but there was no other way. He belonged with the Hugo Bosses and Joseph Abbouds, but the fascism of the Maytag corporation wouldn't allow this glorious union.
Into the ""normal"" clothes it went.
Everything seemed fine, then I opened the washer.
A cloud of what looked like steam shot out of the machine.
This wouldn't normally be too weird, except the washer had been off for about 20 minutes by the time I removed the shirt. Twenty minutes is enough time for any heat to dissipate. Had I been washing the sun, 20 minutes of sitting would have brought its temperature down around absolute zero.
From this there is only one conclusion—that it wasn't steam emerging out of the machine, but the undead soul of one of the most adequate clothing designers in all the land.
I should have realized when it burst out in magnificent colors of fuchsia and taupe that this was not ordinary steam, but one that had a purpose and a desire to haunt the land.
Those of you well-versed in your fashion designer knowledge (or those, like me, who Wikipedia just about everything) are probably saying ""Kevin, Geoffrey Beene died from complications of pneumonia in 2004, there's no way you could have killed him again.""
I realize this, and I think that's what makes my murder/death/kill of him all the more fascinating. It's as if he exited the earthly world and infused himself into my shirt.
It's a ""My Mother the Car"" sort of thing, but not nearly as awful. Or maybe even more horrifying—I'm not certain which.
When I did not show the proper respect to said shirt, I remurdered the dead clothing designer. This realization had unbelievably negative repercussions on me. Needless to say, I do not plan on murdering anymore long dead designers—Michael Kors, even though your designs suck, you are certainly safe.
I also have found myself unable to wear the soulless article of clothing. I stare at it and realize that the shirt represents blood money... and I also conveniently realized it never looked very good on me.
The net gain from that night of cloth cleaning—I am exorcised the soul of one designer. I am also minus the ability to wear one shirt. All in all, I think it's a push.
.
