Bruce Wayne raised one finger and if there had been someone else in the room, the image of a lightbulb would have no doubt shone brightly over his head. He began to bang around the laundry room, hoping desperately that Alfred Pennyworth, currently out the employ of the Wayne household, had some stashed somewhere.

No luck.

He scratched his head again.

He could take on the pyschomaniacal Joker, face down Bane (though not successfully), survive pyschic attacks, but he couldn't find laundry soap in his own home.

He sat in the old barko-lounger that Alfred had drug down to the laundry room years ago, still perplexed. He had checked the cabinets, checked behind the washer and dryer in case it had fallen, checked the small pantry unit and had rummaged through the clothes hamper in the vain hope it would magically appear. It didn't.

Where could it be?

What if there wasn't any?

Bruce was strickened for a moment. He had no clue what to do when it came to domestic duties. That was Alfred's department. Bruce saved the world from diabolical destruction; Alfred fed him when he got home. It was an arrangement Bruce had been happy about, that is, until Alfred got fed up with him and left.

"I have never for one moment been disloyal...." That was true. Too true, actually. Alfred Pennyworth, the man who had raised Bruce Wayne after the death of his parents, had been loyal to a fault. He had badgered and harrassed, threatened and conjoled Bruce the whole time he had been Batman, in fact, Bruce's whole life. That Alfred would ever leave through any means except death had been unthinkable to Bruce. It still was, despite Alfred's pointed absence.

Dragging his mind from it's momentary self-pity, Bruce concentrated on the matter at hand. Laundry. He had to do laundry. He couldn't continue to buy new clothes everyday for the rest of his life. He could afford it, mind you, but it really was silly. He was a grown, highly intelligent, logical man. He could do this.

Bruce looked around, hoping some laundry soap would magically appear.

It didn't.

He would have to go to the store.

He hated going to the grocery store.

He got lost there once. Once was enough.

The grocery store chain was one of the most prominent in town, therefore, Bruce reasoned, it should be easily navigable. He entered through the automatic doors and strode confidently into the building. There he stopped. Before him were aisles and aisles of goods, with people milling around with shopping carts, shopping baskets, or just carrying their goods by hand. He was almost run over by a small elderly lady who, he hoped, did not drive her vehicle like she wheeled her cart. It would explain the motor vehicle accident ratio in Gotham City.

"Out of the way, boy! I'm in a hurry!" Bruce resolved to never drive on the main thoroughfares again. He nimbly dodged the cart, it's mountain of plastic bags containing her groceries. He then stepped further into the store.

Where was he to start?

By the some miracle, his eye caught a sign hanging over one of the aisles. "Aisle Six," he read outloud, "Soups, pastas, sauces and condiments." His eyes widened in comprehension. The aisles were marked! Perfect. "Aisle Seven, canned goods. Aisle Eight, Frozen items. Aisle Nine, more frozen items, Aisle Ten meats, Eleven, Twelve and Thirteen, more meats and some vegetables. I don't need stew items, I need laundry soap." He turned back in the direction he had come. "Still have Aisles One through Five to check out."

Aisle Three was the aisle he was looking for, it turned out. Laundry soap, dish soap and other household supplies were grouped together, which made sense to Bruce. His only problem was which of the fifteen brands on the shelf was he supposed to get? Did Alfred have a preference? Bleach was useful, Bruce knew, and he didn't remember seeing any, so he grabbed a bottle of bleach. Fabric softner came off the shelf as well (Bruce figured it didn't matter what type and the dryer sheets had been fun to play with as a kid), but he was still at a loss for the detergent itself.

There was bleach detergent. Well, he had bleach, so he didn't need that. Color guard detergent, which would be good, but he was washing white clothes too. Did color guard work with whites? Or maybe you use different detergents for different colors? There was detergent for wools. Well, the brown slacks were wool, he thought, so I need this for sure! He grabbed the bottle, wishing he had thought about getting a cart at the front of the store. His arms were getting full.

His eyes caught those magic words that every person who has never done laundry think are the most beautiful words in the world: ALL-PURPOSE. The box of powdered detergent came of the shelf in a jiffy, the wool detergent went back it's place and Bruce headed for the front.

To wait in line behind someone who had three carts of groceries.

He looked around, hoping for a shorter line, but didn't find one, so he resolved to wait forever. He looked at the cover of one of the newsstand trash rags. "Man saves 50 foot spider only to be eaten alive after mating," he read aloud. "That's disgusting." But it was less disgusting than the next millenium prophecies for Gotham City. Bruce was depressed by the time he got to the register.

Back in the laundry room, Bruce carefully read all the instructions on all the detergents. Well, except for the bleach. He knew what bleach did. You soaked your socks in them after a muddy game of golf to get the stains out. A few capfuls to strengthen the detergent and things would be fine. Shouldn't bother the slacks or the black socks, or the red sweater for that matter. Clean the stains right out of those white shirts, though!

He carefully crammed his load of laundry into the washer, poured in the required amount of powdered soap and looked at it. He swore he had put more in there. All there seemed to be was a few particles in there. So he dumped another, more substantial, amount in the washer, and saw what was happening. The soap had fallen between the folds of his clothes. He shrugged. It may have been too much soap, but better too much than not enough, right? He topped the whole thing off with a healthy splash of bleach, close the lid and gave a self-satisfied grin.

Too easy, he chuckled. That was way too easy. Why did Dick always complain about it?

He rotated the knob to wash for 6 minutes (modern technology was great!) and pulled out the knob to start the machine, which took him a while to figure out. Water began to whoosh into the bin and Bruce wandered over to the chair to settle in for a 6 minute triumphant coze.

He didn't need Alfred! This was too easy.

Well, except for the cooking part. He couldn't figure out how Alfred did that. Frying pans were to throw at criminals when you ran out of batarangs, not make a grilled cheese. That's what you had Alfred for.

He sighed. Being a bachelor without Alfred pretty much sucked, as Tim would say.

He had just settled down, eyes closed and almost asleep when a banging sound brought him straight out of the comfortable barko-lounger to a defensive standing position. Thoughts of Bane taking out the front door siezed his mind before rationality took over. Bane was in Blackgate severely injured from Azrael's defeating him as Batman, or Azbats as Nightwing derisively called him.

His eyes shifted to the washing machine and his face lost color. Bubbles overflowed through the closed lid and the washer was hopping around drunkenly.

"What the...?" His voice trailed off as the machine gave a hiccup and died completely. He blinked stupidly for a moment, not sure what to do. Bruce approached the machine cautiously, expecting it to begin its wild jerky movements again. It did not.

He opened the lid and noticed that his clothes were all on one side of the washing machine. He shifted the messy pile to a more even distribution of weight like the washer asked through its blinking "Unbalanced" button. Bruce closed his eyes as he shut the lid again. He sighed in relief as it started up again and began chugging away. Not really wanting to listen to any more of the washing machine's noises, Bruce headed up the basement steps, trying to keep his hopes up that he had done well.

His stomach growled as he passed the kitchen. He shut his eyes, not really having the energy to figure out a recipe for even a tuna fish sandwich. Bruce snatched the phone up and hit the memory button Dick always had programmed for pizza delivery. It still amused Bruce that Alfred kept all the phones with the pizza delivery's number even after Bruce and Dick had parted company less than amicably. "Just in case, Master Bruce," Alfred had intoned when Bruce had made a comment about it once. "Master Dick is still family and he has his quirks too."

Bruce wasn't sure if pizza could be considered a quirk or not but he was grateful for his oldest surrogate son's addiction to greasy pizzas. It was saving his butt in the food department.

He ordered a pizza, added diet caffeine-free Soder cola in a twelve pack to the order and gave the directions to get to Wayne Manor. The girl on the other end of the line assured him that they remembered the way to the Manor from two nights before and he hung up.

Bruce wandered back downstairs, thinking that his laundry should be done by now. It should be time to switch the current load to the dryer and put in a new load. If he remembered from his childhood of watching Alfred do laundry, socks and underwear went together. He hoped he had enough to justify one load. This time less soap, though.

Sure enough, the washer was no longer running so Bruce opened the lid and stared in shock at his clothing. The colored clothes were streaked with white and the white clothes were tie-dyed designs of disaster. He shut the lid and closed his eyes as if in pain.

"I'm so glad Alfred's not here to see this." He opened the lid again to peer at his ruined clothes. "Of course, if Alfred were here I wouldn't even be doing this."

How long he stood there dejectedly he didn't know, but the doorbell ringing brought him from his funk. Bruce took the steps two at a time and grabbed his wallet as he swept past the hall table. He jerked open the door to reveal a teenager with the pizza box staring wide-eyed at him.

Bruce took the pizza box and said with a hopeful smile, "You wouldn't know anything about washing machines, would you?"

Other Tales to Tell | Writings | Main Entrance | Contact