Wrinkle Free
The day is soon approaching that I’ll have to say farewell to the friends I’ve made over the past eight or nine months. Small non-committal references will probably be spoken or hinted to about how we should stay in touch, but we know that’ll never happen. It’s like the last few weeks before graduating high school; everybody signs everybody else’s yearbook with poorly scribbled comments about how we’ll get together in the future – and you never do.
When I first entered the doors with my baskets of soiled clothing, one stacked atop the other, jeans and socks and T-shirts hanging loosely over the edges, I surveyed the room; who’s who, where is it safe, what’s the attitude of the others already assembled within? I’m a dirty dusty cowboy that just rode into town, looking for a whiskey and a card game, sizing up the competition and checking for troublemakers. They all look a little shady. I’d better keep my back to the wall. Then I tell myself to relax, it’s only a laundromat. And they’re probably eyeballing me thinking, “That fella seems kinda suspicious, we ought keep our hammers cocked.”
The big machines in the rear were intimidating; square stainless steel behemoths with large cavernous drums capable of fitting a couple of astronauts.
I initially started out on the smaller white single load varieties I was more familiar with; about 12 per row and I needed at least five of them.
On my third visit (I go once a week), the attendant on duty (Cindy) approached and said, “You’re wasting your money; use the 30 or 40 pound washers,” pointing to the forbidden zone in the back. “Two of those will get you done quicker and for less than you’re spending now.”
“Um, I’m not sure I’ll be able to handle those…” She cuts me off mid-sentence. “Oh ya big baby, don’t be a Sally,” she says.
“You just call me a Sally?” I asked.
“Yeah, I did. Use the machines in the back,” she articulates and points again.
“Whatever you say, Sister Agatha,” I reply. A mutual respect for the ability to verbally dish a slur in jest and appreciation for each other’s slanted humor was reached. I’ll miss our back and forth banter when I no longer need their establishment.
Flo and Maureen are regulars. They like to read Harlequin romance paperbacks and sit in the corner gossiping. I’ve never actually seen them do any laundry; I think they just hang out there and people watch, plus it’s always fairly warm inside during cold winter days. Vague innuendos about stiletto heels are left without my commenting.
Randy – mid forties, escorting his nearly deaf nameless mother are also regulars. He looks more like a Bubba or Brutus; big guy with a beard and frayed leather vest adorned with motorcycle and NASCAR patches. He also strikes me as someone who enjoys a good bar fight and is well acquainted with bail bondsmen. He likes to open the door for folks coming in or going out.
“Ma!” he says loudly. “Finish your breakfast.”
They both have a foil wrapped mega sandwich from the convenience store and a 24-oz. can of Monster energy drink. I bet he loves puppies and kittens and Jesus.
Blue collar guys from out of town are frequent visitors, dried muddy or slickened greasy Carhart workwear piled high; the attendant has special washers for them. They harmlessly flirt back and forth, but she lays the law down. She appreciates their business, but says they’ll damage the equipment if allowed to make their own decisions and choices.
Newly retired baby boomers arrive, carrying a few loads from their RV.
They appear skeptical at first as they, too, sum up the scene. If confusion is crinkled across their brow it’s impossible for me not to offer advice on the do’s and don’ts of the local etiquette. They mostly comply, either from feeling my sincerity or feeling fear. I tend to dress poorly on laundry trips so their being skittish is natural.
Returning to the garage apartment, I hang it up or attempt to locate the correct drawer, shelf or open box for placement. But at least it’s all clean and folded and as the old axiom goes, “It’ll all come out in the wash.”
