BACK AT THE laundromat, I offer to volunteer my time for free every other Sunday, starting for the first two weeks with every Sunday, so as to cover all bases. I explain to the manager that I just enjoy doing laundry. I sell it to her as a win-win situation for us both. She takes this in, nods, pulls out her iPhone, photographs me, then lets me know that I am banned from ever again entering this establishment, that my photograph will be hung on the wall to alert all employees of this development.

I am horrified. My very face has been turned into its own scarlet letter for all the city’s launderers to mock and detest. My secret life laid bare. And, after all, who amongst us doesn’t have a secret life? I am certain that if the rock we call Manhattan were to be overturned, myriad creepy-crawly secret lives would be discovered. I am certain that if— But then it occurs to me: This is perhaps the perfect solution to my issue. Tsai will no doubt see my visage on the laundromat wall. She will understand I have been humiliated in my attempt to secure employment there. I ask the manager if I can see the shot and that if it is flattering, perhaps we could take another one directly under the fluorescents, which tend to be harsh and emphasize my sallow complexion and medically enlarged nose. She tells me she is going to call the police, so I leave. I have not gotten everything I had hoped for, but I have gotten something. For now, there is nothing left to do but wait.