(2016-03-12) Clean Feet
Clean Feet
Summary: Another scavenging log, this time for clothes. Also laundry. Happens after Gunpowder and Alcohol, the next morning, when she's slept it off.
Date: 2016.03.12
Related: None
Players:
monica..


Monica's face is usually what people notice first. Blond hair, blue eyes, and a profusion of varicose veins and arteries that make her face look like she lost a fight with a cheese grater. Other than that, she's fairly ordinary. Slender, wiry, not much of a figure, but she's definitely eating well and getting plenty of exercise.

Mon's dressed to work today. A pair of lace-up steel-toed boots below a tattered pair of jeans a couple sizes too large, held up with suspenders, and a flannel shirt on top. The shirt's sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, and it's unbuttoned a button or two at the collar. Her hair is tied back, safely out of the way. Odds are good her hands are greasy, too. She's wearing an antique style pistol (1858 Remington reproduction, if you wondered) slung for a standing draw. There's a box of cartridges on her other hip. The everpresent cavalry boots and slouch hat don't exactly go with the rest


Location:Thrift StoreOnce upon a time this was a clean and tidy place where people could come in and either donate or purchase gently used clothing and other second hand items. Now everything is dust covered, rummaged through and scatterred. Except those items by the broken windows, that's beyond redemption, moldly and water damaged.

Despite clothes being tossed around and racks being knocked over there are still usable items if one just takes the time to look around…and get past the smell of mouse and mold.


<Scavenge> Monica searches and finds:
2 Shirts
1 Mouse nest

<Scavenge> Monica attempts to search here but fails to find anything.
<Scavenge> Monica searches and finds:
3 Childrens' Pants
3 Childrens' Pants
1 Mouse chewed sweater

Monica is scavenging again. Even her nearly-indestructable reenactment clothes need some downtime, particularly on wash day, so she's here at the thrift store, rummaging through stuff, arranging stuff onto racks instead of throwing it on the floor, and chasing mice. For her trouble, she finds a couple t-shirts and a couple pairs of kids pants. "Definitely give these to Piper." She pauses to think about last evening. "I guess it can't be completely fatal to raising children right now. She's got what, seven? One of them still nursing? Gotta be nursing…" She shrugs and folds up her stuff to take it back to the apartment.


Later, at Shady Glen Apartments: This gated community of five buildings of apartments looks like it was built in the 1970's, and compared to other multi-family places in town it it isn't all that bad.

The buildings are two stories with balconies and solid brick constuction. At one time the bricks were red, but time and the desert heat and sand have taken their toll on the color. On the side of each building is a large letter, A, B, C, D, and E. There are various parking areas both covered and not and dusty cars are dotted through them.

In the center of all the apartment buildings is a larger one story building, the club house, which looks newer then the buildings that surround it and is equipped with an array of solar panels on the roof.


Monica's face is usually what people notice first. Blond hair, blue eyes, and a profusion of varicose veins and arteries that make her face look like she lost a fight with a cheese grater. Other than that, she's fairly ordinary. Slender, wiry, not much of a figure, but she's definitely eating well and getting plenty of exercise.

Mon's wearing a tattered, button-less button-down shirt, a size or so too large, with the tails tied in front baring her belly and holding the shirt closed despite the lack of buttons. There's not much danger of it not holding. Mon hasn't got that much of a figure. The sleeves are rolled up past her elbows. The bottoms were clearly part of a bikini once, hipster cut and scalloped at the top. All well and good. If you ever wondered whether the damage to Mon's skin extends past her neck, now you know. It does.


Monica pokes her head out the door and looks around before she exits the building. It's not hard to see why. That has to be a swimsuit she's wearing. A two-piecer at that. It is. The one outfit from home that she never wore through her entire sojourn in the wilderness except on the rare occasions she found time to wash up. She's carrying a five gallon pickle bucket, also brought from home, and a box of high efficiency laundry detergent. Practically a lifetime supply at the rate she uses it. She measures out some soap into the bucket and fills it with water from Terry's catchment system, then piles in clothes, particularly the new (to her) t-shirts and kids pants. After a fifteen minute pre-soak, she gets in the bucket with them, stomping the laundry like grapes with her feet.

Monica stomps and smushes her laundry around for fifteen minutes or so, then pours the water out, refills the bucket halfway, and stomps some more. She repeats this second process once more to be sure. The clothes from the thrift store, having been donated before the Others came, were full of soap. Not so much anymore.

Monica empties the bucket again, stomps the laundry flat to wring it, empties, repeats, until she stops getting water out. Then she drapes the laundry from the railing around the deck. On a clear day, it won't dry forever.

You say, "And," she mutters to herself, "Clean feet." She darts back inside before anyone catches her in her swimsuit.

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