I’m folding laundry in a Mexican beach town in the basement of a garage turned-four-story-apartment inside a gated complex which was built because my uncle-in-law divorced his wife who’s my wife’s aunt or my aunt-in-law and started a second family but then left the second family and got back together with my aunt-in-law and believes some conspiracy theory about the stock market and the banks and the government so he has no where to invest the gobs of money he’s made from starting a network of standalone emergency rooms across Texas so he bought a ranch and buried most of it there then used the rest of the money to continually add floors above this garage inside this walled complex in this small Mexican town, where at the baseball field two blocks north, reggaeton blares out of tinny speakers and at the the club one block south, high BPM techno with tons of airhorn pounds my small closed window.
Tomorrow I go back to work, remotely, from the spare bedroom, my laptop on an old tin pot, so I’m glad I’m getting the laundry done now. I decide not to fold my Hawaiian shirt because I’ll just hang it in the closet.