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"Stop at the store," my buddy said. "I spilled nacho cheese on my shirt."
I glanced at the passenger seat. "Looks like you made a mess with the mustard too."
"It was an exciting game," he said. "But this was my last clean shirt."
"You're out of laundry detergent?"
"No. I'm out of shirts." He lifted a foot. "My last clean socks. I'll get a new pack."
I turned into the department store parking lot. "What kind of laundry detergent do you use? You should pick up some of that oxidizing stuff. Those stains can be hard to get out."
"Dude, you're not hearing me. I don't do laundry. I buy new clothes."
That's when I realized why my bachelor buddy hadn't yet retired -- to support his habit of "not doing laundry."
I scratched my head. "Let me get this straight. You never clean your clothes?"
"Waste of time. You have wash-and-wear. I have wear-and-dispose."
"You don't wash your dirty laundry?"
"Oh, I might air it out, rinse a couple things in the sink once in a while, or turn them inside out to get another couple of days of wear. But I don't do laundry."
"That's insane. And unsanitary."
"Haven't you read any of Lee Child's Reacher novels? Jack Reacher never washes his clothes. He buys a new set at Goodwill or some local store and throws away the dirty threads. I'm Jack Reacher."
"You're Jack Delusional. I've read the books. Reacher doesn't have a home, car or suitcase. He wanders the country with just his toothbrush. But you, your house is over there. Three blocks from the Laundromat."
"So what? I also have a washer and dryer in my basement. It's where I hide Christmas presents, my baseball card collection and my emergency stash of chocolate. My brother-in-law and my nephews won't go anywhere near laundry when they visit. Now help me find the underwear."
I threw up my hands. "You're on your own, fella. I'll wait by the magazine rack. I'll pick up a copy of Good Housekeeping for you."
Back in the car, I asked, "What about dishes? You don't throw away your cups and spoons after every meal, do you?"
"My man, that's what paper plates and plastic forks are for. Eat, crumple and dispose."
"What about when you have guests over? I mean, IF a guest ever dropped by?"
"I'd use the fancy paper plates, the ones that say 'Happy Thanksgiving' and 'Merry Christmas.' You can pick them up cheap after holidays. I store them in the dryer."
"Pots and pans?"
"Fast-food window. In throwaway bags."
"Do you vacuum? Mop? Or do you tear up carpet and floorboards?"
He glared. "Do you think I'm an idiot? Of course, I don't rip out the flooring. I cover everything in newspapers."
"So, basically you're a puppy that isn't housebroken?"
"I'm a lucky dog who doesn't have to do laundry or dishes."
I pondered a few moments. "Do you... do you wash yourself? Shower, bathe, that sort of thing?"
"Every day. With Dawn."
"The dish soap?"
"Somebody gave me a bottle once. Just because I don't wash dishes doesn't mean I'm going to let perfectly good dish soap go to waste." He paused. "But I won't use Ajax again. Flies loved the lemony fresh scent and wouldn't leave me alone."
I pulled into his driveway. He grabbed his bag of clothes and clambered out.
"So," I said. "Do you still want me to pick you up for next week's game?"
"Well, duh, of course I do. Why do you have to ask?"
"Because," I said, putting the car in gear, "I thought you'd throw me out by then and pick up a new sucker, er, friend."
We can take this disposable society thing way too far.
Personally, we think Burt's sniffed too many Tide detergent fumes. Write him at burton.w.cole@gmail.com.