Sometimes I think that argyle is all that stands between us and the end of the world. It stands against the unyielding compromises and sartorial servitudes that undermine every tenet of resolve and self-respect. It's a thin barrier between delusion and absolute truth. And Even those who don't don the stripes and diamonds respect its certitude.

A middle age woman in jeans and a beige sweater sat on the washing the machine when I came down to dry my clothes. She was reading a magazine but tossed it quickly when she heard the door open. I think her name is Iris and as far as I know she isn't married. No kids either. Sometimes she asks me if I go to Mather, a high school on the city's north side. When I tell her I am twenty-six years old she feigns embarrassment and says how much I'll appreciate my "young looking face," in a few years.

I notice she wears little argyle. Lots of cable, though..

"I hope you don't mind," she tells me as I clomp down the metallic scales that stretch from the roof to the laundry room, "I put your clothes on the chair. I needed to dry. It'll just be a minute."

I told her that I did not mind that I'd just return later to stick my stuff in the dryer. I suppose I could have stuck around and make chit-chat, but I just wasn't up for it. And besides, "24" was going to start in a mere umm….two hours.

On my way back up, she called after me. "You have some kind of argyle fetish don't you?"

"I just like the pattern," I said from slightly beyond the laundry room door.

Then she asked me how many argyle sweaters I own. Seven, I almost called back. But then I thought. Is it eight? Nine? Ten? Fifteen? How many sweaters with wavy patterns could I own and what exactly did that say about me? Is there something wrong with purchasing one argyle sweater after another? Is it indicate of a fear of trying new things or losing myself to the capricious demands of secular society?

Or is it my way of staving off the beast? Asserting my creativity by eschewing the abstract?  The problem with patterns that they never end. Colors, sizes and shapes keep them moving, but resiliency keeps it all the same. The same but different: our weapon against Donna Karan.  

I told the woman I had ten argyle sweaters. When I came down a half an hour later she was still there, folding sheets and whistling quietly. Quickly, I tossed my stuff into the dryer. On my way out, however, I turned around and called down to her,

"You know, Iris, I think I actually have sixteen of them."

She didn't reply.