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"The Best of All Possible Worlds"
by Pix

So I have this life.

No, no, no. Let me try this again.

Once upon a time, in eleventh grade English, Mr. Cobb made us read 
Plato's allegory of the cave. The central premise is that we're all 
living in a world that's like a cave, and everything we think we can 
see and take as truth is but shadows on the wall. Someone goes to the 
outside world -- the real world -- and sees something other than 
shadows. It's then their responsibility to come back and tell everyone 
in the cave what they've seen. It's not an easy job, being the PR 
spokesperson for reality.

Anyway -- the allegory of the cave is just a very difficult way to work
around to Plato's real point. That point is, Plato thinks there are 
ideals we should strive to, perfect essences of any given thing.

So I have this life, and I have my Platonic ideal of what this life 
should be, and there's a lot of space between the two.

My Platonic life is the one where I am a morning person, and I am so 
good with time that I can cultivate a really great hobby, one that 
leaves me personally fulfilled and maybe opens the door to a second 
career. My Platonic life is the one where I don't have $3000 debt 
across six credit cards, and I'm not thinking of raiding my IRA to pay 
them off. 

I never have to do laundry in my Platonic life, and if I do, the 
laundry comes out perfectly and I fold things well by instinct, not 
because I used to work at the Gap every holiday season. My apartment is
really nice in my Platonic life too, not in one of the dicier sections 
of Capital Hill, where I have to be careful not to step over the 
puddles on the sidewalk because I'm never sure if they're rainwater or 
urine from the homeless guys and junkies living in the alley between my
row of apartment houses and the next.

I get to go to restaurants in my Platonic life, not pore over eight 
different takeout menus and wonder which region of China I'll be 
sampling tonight while I work. More importantly, I get to go to 
restaurants in Georgetown or Adams-Morgan or the U district, and I'm 
not waiting to see what my date orders so I can choose a cheaper dish, 
nor am I scanning the menu prices and seeing what I can afford to try 
so I can pull my share of the check. It goes without saying that I know
what wine to order.

Of course, this Platonic life and these Platonic restaurants, all these 
lead to dates. In real life, I go out with guys who don't really listen
beyond the first five minutes. In my Platonic life, I know how to pick 
guys who are good listeners, or they're attracted to me. I would know 
why the men don't listen -- I would know if it was me, or if it was 
them. I'd know how to hold a conversation that holds their interest. 
I'd know not to doubt myself, and I'd never wonder why I keep trying.

And I'd never have to return a dress the next day.

I still haven't really worked out the financial details of my Platonic 
life, other than knowing that I want what I don't have: a mailbox that 
doesn't hold bills and junk mail, a paycheck that stretches more than a
gymnast before the Olympics, a budget that's more carefully balanced 
than the ones I research and run around to everyone in the office. In 
my Platonic life, I'd never have to ask for a raise, because I'd be 
paid what I'm worth.

Of course, in my Platonic life, I'd also know what I'm worth. In this 
one, what I think changes depending on the time of the day, the day of 
the week, and what Josh has said to me recently. Lately, the way things
have been, what Josh doesn't say to me is better than what he does say.

I think, in my Platonic life, my worth would be ... valuable. 
Invaluable. I'd be listened to -- sometimes, I wonder if the reason I 
keep talking is because I just keep hoping someone will look at me, and
we'll both know: I have something worth saying. Sometimes, I think that
what I say already is worth something, and the problem is the people 
I'm saying it to. Again -- in an ideal world, the perfect world, 
really, I'd know the answer to this problem, and then I wouldn't have 
it at all.

"You're awfully quiet."

The voice -- Josh's voice -- startles me, and I realize I've been 
sitting here, staring at the human resources intranet and reading the 
memo on rolling out 508 in the White House for ten minutes.

"Just thinking."

"That's never good," Josh says, hovering over my shoulder.

"Sometimes it is." I crane my head to look back at Josh and he bounces 
over to Ginger's desk, grabs her chair, and rolls back over to sit at 
my elbow.

"So are you wondering exactly how we have to accomodate Americans with 
disabilities on the Internet?"

"I was," I say cautiously. "Now I'm wondering about the best possible 
world."

"The best possible world or the best of all possible worlds?"

"We're not even getting into the physics of space and time, Josh, so 
just back down."

"I'm not thinking of physics. I'm thinking of Voltaire."

"What, Candide? That was his attack on optimism."

"It was also, Donnatella Moss, where we get the phrase 'the best of all
possible worlds.'"

"You're missing my point."

"I have no doubt you'll enlighten me."

"Are you trying to make a funny?"

Josh gives me a smirk, and I can't decide if he's smiling because I got
his joke, or because he likes it when his audience gets his sense of 
humor.

"Anyway," I continue, "the point to Candide was that it was a 
refutation of Leibniz's Discours de Metaphysique and Leibniz's 
contention that existence is made up of linked components that all 
chain together, this chain was created by God, and since God is 
benevolent, omnipotent, and omniscient, he logically would create the 
best of all possible worlds."

"Logically," Josh deadpans.

"So Leibniz was an optimist who claims everything happens for the best,
based on his perception of God and one extremely faulty syllogism. 
Candide takes that argument to its satirical end. If you must know, I 
read it in the original French."

"I can't even read French," Josh says.

"How did you become a Fullbright scholar?"

"I went to England."

"And here I thought English was your second language."

"You think you're an hysterically funny person --"

"Incidentally, it's a hysterically funny person. When the 'h' is 
voiced, the correct article is a, not an. Unless you're trying for that
Cockney dialect. You could be. Many non-native English speakers pick up
dialects."

"Didn't I have you come in to work today, not to analyze my speech?"

"You did," I concede. And in my Platonic world, I wouldn't work 
weekends.

"So why are you sitting here and correcting my Ivy League education 
when you could be working?"

"Because I finished twenty minutes ago, and you were still hiding from 
Leo when I went to tell you."

"I wasn't hiding," Josh protests.

"Evading?"

"Maybe."

"Eluding?"

"I prefer to think of it as being coincidentally inaccessible."

"Coincidentally inaccessible," I echo.

"That's right."

"So if I'm coincidentally inaccessible next Saturday ...?"

"I know where to look for you."

He grins at me, and for a moment, I let myself think that in the best 
of all possible worlds, he really does know where to look.

"Can I go?" I ask.

"Why?"

"Because I have to do laundry, and Barr's is only open to midnight. I 
want to get a few loads done."

"Why can't you do it at your place?"

"One, the laundry room is only open until ten, and two, it's in the 
basement and I get --"

"I see, I see. So come do it at my place."

"Do you know what time your laundry room closes?"

"We don't have laundry rooms in my building," Josh says loftily. 
"Condo, remember?"

"So you're inviting me to beat my clothing over rocks in the Potomac a 
few blocks from your house?"

"No, I'm inviting you to my place so you can use my washer and dryer."

"Why didn't ...?" I trail off, not quite knowing how to ask, "Why 
didn't you tell me this when I was over all the time last year?"

Josh shrugs, one careless motion.

"I really don't want to stay here," I tell him.

"Then this year may be your lucky year," he replies, and it amazes me 
how easily he lies, acting as if this whole grand jury investigation 
doesn't bother him.

"I meant right now," I clarify. 

"Because you have laundry to do."

"Because I have laundry to do," I reiterate.

"My washer and dryer don't close at midnight."

I can't believe he's telling me this. He knows he's opening himself up 
to a lot of requests in the next few months for laundry. He knows I'm 
going to ask, and he's going to complain that I'm taking advantage of 
him. So why ...?

"That could be your new slogan."

"That sounds vaguely dirty."

"And this bothers you because ...?"

"I'm not the one with the dirty laundry," he shoots back, then, after 
catching my glare, says, "literally speaking."

"Six loads, Josh," I say.

"Good thing I'm open twenty-four hours." he smirks. A pause, then, 
"Don't say anything."

I turn off my computer and decide that we would still talk like this in
my ideal Platonic world. We just wouldn't do it at work.

Two hours later, Josh is watching me fold my underwear and heckling the
editor of the National Review as he speaks on the future of the 
conservative moment.

"You're not qualified to talk about the future of anything when you're 
not old enough to remember Reagan!" he decrees in the general direction 
of the television, then turns back to me and asks, "So does that pair 
have your name in them too?"

"No!"

"Can I see?"

"No!" Especially not this pair. I wear this pair when I have my period;
the last thing I need is for my boss to be inspecting blood-stained 
underwear.

"Why not?"

"Because then you'll unmask me. Donna Moss is only my secret identity."

"You've seen my underwear."

"Yeah, when I was schlepping your laundry to Georgetown Valet while you
sat in your apartment and laughed."

"Laughed?" he sounds puzzled. I start on the bras and shoot him an 
angry look. "Oh! 'Cause ...."

"Because you had me run around while you sat on information that could 
have made my life less stressful. Not," I grit out, "that this isn't a 
theme in our interactions."

"Donna."

I huff and go back to folding clothes. In my ideal world, not only 
would I never have blood-stained underwear, I'd own lingerie 
appropriate for public inspection. And it would never, ever be seen in 
public again.

"Donna," Josh says again. I look up. "When I was ... you used to get 
this look, and it's the look you get right before you begin telling me 
how you're going to kill me. So I figured it was better for both of us 
to send you out of the apartment for a while, and that's when you'd do 
laundry."

Actually, that's when the good guys at Georgetown Valet did it while I 
sat in Cafe Milano and boned up on philosophy. Something terrible 
happened and we all wanted answers to the big question: Why? Josh 
looked at the mathematical underpinnings of the universe for 
explanation; I stuck with the great minds of Western civilization. I'm 
saving the Eastern philosophy for the next bad thing.

But it's easier to let Josh think I was doing his laundry.

"Well," I finally say. "That's that, then."

"In the best of all possible worlds, you would have been doing laundry 
here."

"Actually," I say, without thinking, "in the best of all possible 
worlds, I wouldn't have needed to."

"No." His voice is really quiet, and I realize too late how I've 
slipped. "No, you wouldn't have."

"But," I plow on, figuring that maybe I can recover this by pretending 
we're still normal, "in the best of all possible worlds, I wouldn't be 
doing laundry here tonight."

"What would you be doing, Donnatella Moss?"

"Well ... I'd be dropping off my laundry someplace else and dancing at 
Chief Ike's. Or talking Voltaire with someone at Green Island Cafe."

"Yeah?"

"But," I say, "in this world, I think this is the best possible way to 
do laundry."

Josh's face lights up and I feel my own flame in response, so I pretend
to be concentrating on folding my t-shirts, and after a few seconds, he
clears up the Chinese food he bought us and heads into the kitchen with
the trash.

And I think, in the best possible world, I wouldn't have said anything 
either of us could have taken the wrong way. In my perfect Platonic 
world, I could have said something else, something worth listening to.

We're quiet through the end of the National Review guy, and I'm done 
with my clothes and waiting for the first load of sheets to dry when 
Josh shifts on the couch so I can sit next to him in front of the 
television. I do, and he hands over the cold Sam Adams he just opened; 
I take a pull and hand it back, and for a little bit, we watch some 
book author talk about Truman's election, saying, "You have to 
understand, television changed the nature of Presidential campaigns."

"Television changed everything in politics," snorts Josh, and I ask, 
"How?"

"Nixon versus Kennedy; it shifted focus from the issues, and people 
concentrated on how the candidates looked, not what they said. 
Watergate. The Iran-Contra hearings. We spin images much more quickly 
now; some scholars say the level of public discourse has dropped 
dramatically since politicians started using television."

We're quiet for a moment; I'm remembering the Todd Gitlin and Neil 
Postman books CJ lent me during the campaign, and deciding that having 
Josh explain things to me is usually a lot more enjoyable.

"Do you think ...?" I ask, trying to find the perfect way to ask my 
question. "Do you think that when other people have this conversation 
in ten years, we'll be mentioned?"

"Who, us?"

"The administration," I say. "Are we going to become another TV 
milestone?"

Josh leans back against the couch, exhaling heavily, and I scoot around
to study his face. He sticks his hand out for the beer, I hand it over,
and he finishes it.

"I don't know," he finally says. "I hope not. I hope we're remembered 
for something else."

There is nothing I can say, not in the world, not in the best possible 
one, not in the ideal one, so I turn around and watch the television 
quietly until the dryer's buzzer goes off and I have to fold my sheets.

Josh helps me load everything in my car once I'm done, all three 
baskets crammed with neatly folded clothes and linens, and we stand on 
the curb, just smiling awkwardly at each other, inches apart. We've 
been doing that a lot lately, swooping into each other's personal space
and backing off, and whatever we're doing has gone beyond the old, 
familiar touches into someplace I can't quite name yet. 

I mean, I know what I want it to be. I just don't know if Josh wants 
the same thing.

Which is why we end up standing on the curb, me leaning my back against
the car window and only briefly hoping that the car's not dirty enough 
to leave anything on my shirt, and Josh leaning next to me, body 
perpendicular to mine, his arm boxing me in.

"Thanks for letting me use your washer and dryer," I say again.

"No problem."

"Really?"

Josh realizes he's opened a pandora's box here and backtracks. "Well, 
not really. Like, once a month it's no problem."

That's fortunate, since once a month is about all I can manage for 
doing laundry. Why else would I have a load that was nothing but 
lingerie? Thirty days' worth of assorted unmentionables add up.

"I'll keep that in mind."

There's a tiny little silence where we both seem to be debating what 
comes next. Or maybe that's me reading into things, and I don't need 
that, not right now, so I say, "Well, it's late. I'm going."

"See you Monday."

"Yeah."

"Six-thirty."

"I don't open the bullpen, Josh."

He grins. "Can't put one by you anymore."

I smile and get in the car, and drive back to my neighborhood, hoping 
that they're not working on Pennsylvania avenue at one a.m. on a Sunday 
and that I can find parking close enough to my apartment where I only 
have to make two trips from the car to my apartment. Walking on my 
street in the early morning can feel dangerous sometimes.

So I have this life, I think while I drive.

I have this life where I do laundry once a month because my job throws 
surprises at me and the country doesn't stop when I need clean 
underwear. I have this life with this job that I might or might not 
have a year from now. And I have this life where I like my boss, who 
really isn't the best possible man for me to like. He's my boss. He's 
older. He's frequently self-centered, and immature, and if I ever asked 
him to talk about how he felt, he'd probably explode from anxiety. He 
doesn't know how to woo women, and he'd probable be all wrong for me.

But, oh, in my Platonic life, we'd be more than platonic friends.

I have this life, I think, and then I stop, because sometimes, it's 
easier to live in my real world than it is to think about what the best
possible one would be like.