Lisa C Taylor – A Biography of Fabric and Hair

Taylor LE P&W September 2024

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Live Encounters Poetry & Writing September 2024

A Biography of Fabric and Hair, story by Lisa C. Taylor.


Couple illustration

“Do you really collect world globes?” I ask him on our second phone call after our virtual meeting on the dating site.

“Yup. Smallest one is the size of a bead. I have a marble one, an egg-sized one on a wooden pedestal, and a few the size of that Italian cheese you find in specialty grocery stores,” he says.

“Mozzarella? How many do you have?”

“Hmmm. I’d guess about thirty. But that’s not the weirdest thing I collect.”

“Oh yeah? What?” I pet Carmel who has taken over the edge of the chair.

“I collect lint. The stuff you find in the lint-trap in the dryer. I go to laundromats and get it there. I have this big ball. When I was on vacation in Maine, someone had a yarn bomb event, knitting a tube that stretched all the way to the beach. I’m trying to think of something like that I can do with the lint.”

“Why?” Carmel’s purr makes the chair vibrate.

“Why does anyone do anything? I guess it’s interesting to me. Lint is like a shadow story. Who has flannel sheets or wears fleece? Fleece is a great lint producer. I have magenta and yellow from fleece jackets. Some of my lint has dog or cat hairs mixed in. I think about what kind of pet someone who goes to the laundromat might have. Do you collect anything?”

“Not really. Postcards for a while. I live in a condo and don’t have a lot of space. But your collections are interesting.”

“Interesting? Does that mean we should meet or is that just a nice way of saying goodbye?” His voice is low and gravelly. I find it sexy in a warm-up band kind of way.

“I wouldn’t do that. I’d like to meet. I have a boring life. I go to work. I go home. Sometimes I watch a movie. On Sundays I visit my mother. My Dad died last year so she’s alone. She makes me dinner and I help organize her stuff. ”

“What’s your job?”

“Benefit analyst. I interview people applying for state benefits and determine their eligibility. Been there twelve years.  You?”

“Therapist—mental health, not a physical therapist. I wouldn’t know how to do that at all. I specialize in PTSD and eating disorders,” he says.

“Interesting. In a hospital or clinic?” Carmel is digging her claws into the upholstery so I throw her off.

“No. Private practice. Started two years ago. I have a shelf in my office for my globes.  Clients ask about them. Kind of a metaphor that they can learn to control their own world,” he says.

I think about some anorexic looking at the collection and somehow seeing control over her disappearing body. Bet he doesn’t tell her about the lint. Who wants to see a therapist with huge balls of lint in his house? Lint bombing. I’m sure that’s going to be the next big thing.  Calls after meeting someone on a dating site are like a window cracked open in your car on a cold day. It’s freezing but the car smells like old dog so you’re trying to air it out. Unfortunately, when you close the window, it still smells like old dog.

“Still there?” he asks.

“Yeah. Thinking about the lint.”

“I know. My last girlfriend couldn’t get past it even though I keep it in the study. It’s not like it’s by the bed or anything,” he says.

“How much do you have?”

“That’s hard. I mean some of it is in balls and some of it is flat. A lot. I have a lot of lint. I’m really going to do something with it. It’s kind of a biography in fabric and hair,” he says.

I’m feeling a little queasy at this point. This guy may be psycho even though he’s a therapist. I open another screen to Google him and there he is, all whiskery and earnest-eyed, fucking Ph.D. in psychology. Why do male therapists always have beards? He was clean-shaven in his profile picture. His specialties are listed: PTSD, eating disorders, couples and family therapy. Heal thyself, George-the-therapist. Oh, by the way, I’m sure he tells them he has sheets and balls of lint in his house as a metaphor for life. I’m betting that wouldn’t do much for his business.  I Google myself. Oh, Internet Oracle, tell me who I am besides Veronica Redmond, MBA.  Nothing much except my stint with the Sierra Club and a charity 5K that raised money for children with Muscular Dystrophy. My Instagram has mostly pictures of my cat and flower garden. See, George. I’m the normal one.

“So, should we meet?” he asks.

I imagine George rolling up some lint that he keeps by his computer.

“I guess. Public place,” I say.

I’m thinking an arena or a mall but George suggests Deena’s Pizzeria. I should have known that a lint and globe collector wouldn’t be reading Yelp to find a five-star restaurant.

“Sure, okay.”

When I sign out, I’m giddy to have Saturday night plans since I’ve exhausted all the Netflix and Amazon options and even my mother is out playing cards on Saturday nights. He looks kind of normal and there aren’t any Healthgrades that say anyone committed suicide after therapy with him.

I’ll wait to tell him the rules. No need to overwhelm a man who collects lint. It’s not too much to ask that he take off his shoes and socks indoors and wash his feet. He probably won’t care about the silverware I carry with me, public dishwashers being a breeding ground for germs. I’m discreet. The last date I had was two years ago. We broke up because he didn’t understand the need for latex gloves when I touched his body even though I explained that it wasn’t a lot different from wearing a condom. I’m sure I can help George overcome his habit of collecting the detritus of other people’s lives. Our own is disgusting enough. In his photo, he has warm eyes and I sense he’ll be kind.


© Lisa C Taylor

Lisa C. Taylor is the author of three collections of poetry, most recently Interrogation of Morning (Arlen House/Syracuse University Press, 2022) and two collections of short fiction, most recently Impossibly Small Spaces (Arlen House/Syracuse University Press). Her first novel, The Shape of What Remains will be published by Between the Lines Publishing in February 2025. Lisa is the co-director of the Mesa Verde Writers Conference www.mesaverdewritersconference.org and she teaches online for writers.com. Lisa’s honors include the Hugo House New Writers Fiction Award, Pushcart nominations in poetry and fiction, and numerous best-of-the-net nominations. She is a fiction editor for Wordpeace.co an online journal with a theme of social justice. www.lisactaylor.com

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