I was sitting in the laundromat today, reading a book as my whites rolled over and over in dryer number 21. A stranger approached me, stood across from my wheeled cart, and over the TV noise asked what I was reading, what it was about.

I’ve been trying to plow through this book since late November: All the Names by Jose Saramago. I’m near the end and just getting to the faster-paced stuff, as I told the stranger.

But his eyes wandered, and he didn’t really want to know about All the Names. So, why'd he ask? What did he want?

He started to talk. He reads books, he told me. He shifted his feet.

I looked in his eyes, and they were interesting, rather milky and blueish. They made me think of cataracts, although I’d overheard him earlier mentioning his age as 35. He seemed at home here, addressing other guys by name over the washers. And he liked to sing to himself, had a very resonant voice.

But now, he was restless, restless. He told me he hadn’t always lived here. That he’d been around, seen some things. He said you tell people around here about Homeland Security, how fast they can trace you from a computer online, and they think you’re talking about something crazy. He said he’d worked in DC designing missiles. The pay was good, but something didn’t feel right and he came back. I spoke. ‘You want your work to be about building, not destroying.’

‘That’s it! That’s it exactly!’

‘Good for you,’ I said.

He reached out and shook my hand hard. And he returned to his laundry, and I to All the Names.