Tuesday, August 2, 2011

On Laundry Day

It's a special kind of routine, tripping to the laundromat. A bulging sack thrown over a shoulder, like a Santa Claus of wardrobe basics. Your tote bag filled with perfumed syrup and sheets, your pockets jangling with the quarters you scrounged from couch cushions.

There's no one else here, and I'm glad I came today. I'm glad I chose this laundromat, instead of the one down the street I usually go to—there are little tables and chairs here, and bare countertops of stainless steel. The machines at the old place are always busy, and I suspect their rough handling is the reason our cotton shirts are running threadbare in places. Besides, there is a luxury to be found in an empty laundromat, rows of quieted machines and stale softener on the air.

The washing of your clothes has a rhythm all its own, a patience metered out in quarters and dollars and buttons. Twenty three minutes to wash, press start, break. The machines spring to life with the thud of dull, jangling coins, those inner mechanics dancing for pay. And the space between, to be filled with disconnect from the outside world.

via Little Bang Theory

Some people leave their clothes at the laundromat between cycles, leave to go do other things, leave to return to their lives, even if only in half hour increments. I’ve never understood this inclination, but maybe I’m just not trusting enough. Maybe I just like clothes more than the average person. Maybe they don’t understand the tragedy of those histories, those memories potentially whisked away forever. Or maybe the hum of the machines working reminds them there are things to be done elsewhere, at home, in their car, at the grocery store, workaholics that they are. Maybe that is how they live, leaving one job lingering while they cross off another task. Or maybe they just prefer reality TV to the boring reality of the wash.

I like the rhythm of the machines, the steady stream of action and inaction at once, the calm automation of the washer—water now, now swish, swishing stops, pull the stop and spin spin spin. Buzzer and then I rise, dragging sopping tangles of fabric into the dryer. There is no one else here, so I only use top row dryers—no stooping for me. Clink clink clink, press start, break. The machines have me moving in rhythm too.

I sit back at the little table, running my eyes along the words, printed ones at that, in a small yellowed novel. I am not at the laundromat—I am in the middle of a city, in the middle of a crowd, on the hottest day of summer. I am looking for someone, trying to find someone I don't even know, have only had the briefest introduction to. I am—buzz.

I bury my face in the soft clouds of cotton, steamy with scent, and begin to fold. I stick, I stack, and I struggle to make the sheets look crisp—they are not a one man job. I slip my soap and my softener and the yellowed paperback in my tote, and I walk home, a Quasimodo carrying my closet.

There is nothing quite like sleeping in a freshly made bed—besides the indulgence of the next morning, all your favourite pairs of underwear nestled and stretching on like an eternity of choice.

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