I feel like a fairly observant person, but if you ask me to explain or describe to you what I’m
seeing, hearing, smelling, etc., I’m at a loss for words. This is a bad thing
for an aspiring writer to admit, I suppose. Earlier today, I was in the
wonderful land of the Laundromat. So I started thinking, How would I describe this place? I could tell you about the cold,
hard seat that was hurting my bony butt. It was in a row of other colorful
seats (blue, yellow, orange) to disguise the dread of having to use a
Laundromat. Look, while you’re here you
get to sit in these rainbow chairs! Or I could describe the whir of the
washing machines, a row of different cycles and stages and this one is
permanent press and this one is gentle. I wish they were louder. I want the
rushing and spinning to cover the sound of the Channel 7 Local News coming from
the TVs on all four walls. I’m not in the mood to hear about the little girl
who was saved from the creek—her rescuer first thinking she was a dog. Or
about the Florida residents in an uproar because peacocks are destroying their
cars.
Or maybe I’ll tell you about the man across the room. He’s
standing in front of the big Eco-Friendly Dryer, staring at the spinning dark
colors. He’s tired. How do I know this? He’s somewhat slumped over, with his
right arm resting across his stomach and his left arm squeezed by his side. His
left hand is supporting his chin, with his neck stretched out, as if to peer
into the dryer even deeper. He hasn’t shaved today. He’s wearing white painter’s
pants and an off-white t-shirt with sponsors on the back, like the ones they
give out at festivals or minor-league baseball games. But I’m still missing
something. I don’t know how to go into more detail on how the man’s body
language tells me he’s tired. Instead I can only imagine what has exhausted him
in the first place. Or why his stomach sticks out over his pants like it does.
I could go into a story on how he works eleven hour days and when he gets home
he just wants to sit on his couch, because although his painting job is not
exactly exercise it is still physically tiring. And his wife doesn’t have the
energy to join a gym, so how can she tell him
he needs to lose a couple pounds. She may be a nag, but she is not a hypocrite.
Well, anyway. That will be my Last. Laundromat. Visit. EVER.
My new apartment will have a washer and dryer unit all to itself. No more
hauling suitcases down the street or having to watch the Maury Show. No more
accidentally flinging underwear on the dirty floor three washers down or
watching clothes catch on fire in the heavy-duty dryer and then turn to black
char. Just six days ‘til the big move!
"I believe you should live each day as if it is your last, which is why I don't have any clean laundry. Because, come on, who wants to wash clothes on the last day of your life?" —from a fifteen-year-old contestant in a newspaper challenge to imitate Jack Handy's Intimate Thoughts
