Just finished my laundry. I’ve been on an every-other-week system for years, and it works pretty nicely. For the past 7 years I’ve lived on the 4th floor of a building with a washer and dryer on the 1st floor. Before that I frequented a Laundromat (Merriam-Webster capitalizes it, not me) named “Suds N Sweat.” Yes, that was the name. I’m pleased with the convenience of laundry within the building, though at first I missed the social aspect of the Laundromat. Not that I really ever spoke to anyone, but the possibility existed. Quirky single folk are always meeting up in Laundromats in movies and commercials. It only happened once for me, about 15 years ago: A girl and I recognized each other from high school—she was a year or 2 younger than me. We went out twice—saw Howard’s End (all I remember is that a bookcase fell on some dude), and went to the Big Apple Circus. Didn’t make it to that magical third date.
So, all in all, I prefer my current easy access to laundry. The only negatives:
1) Once in a while I’ll schlep down the stairs only to find that one of the residents of the 8 other units in this building is already using the machines.
2) I have to wear pants for the entire hour-and-a-half of the laundry process, lest I creep out a neighbor.
A few months back, however, after a carbon-monoxide scare in our laundry room, our dryer was unplugged. We either had to replace it or revamp the exhaust tubing, and have it OK’d by the fire department. So now I had to wear pants and shoes, and walk a block to the nearest Laundromat. The weekend manager is a friendly, somewhat odd, disheveled fellow in his late 50’s I’d guess. It’s a small corner place, with 6 or 7 washing machines. Turner Classic Movies is usually on the TV, and the vending machine is woefully understocked except for a solid supply of peanut-butter crackers.
I can’t say I talked to the guy much. One time, after a heavily-accented woman left the premises, he told me she’d been in the Olympics. Was going to race the 400 meters, but got injured.
“For Sweden?” I asked.
“She’s Finnish,” he answered.
“But she didn’t finish,” I said.
He liked that. He liked it a lot. “If we were doing better here, I’d give ya a free wash for that one,” he told me. “But we’re barely getting by.”
Another time, he was talking to himself, making his shopping list. So as I left, I said, “Good luck with those green tomatoes.” He got pensive and said, “I think I’ll fry them up with some scrambled eggs and sausage.” To which I replied, “That’s sounds really good, actually.” To that, he smiled, made a quick clucking sound and shot me a combined snap-and-point, kind of a modified Leather Tuscadero.
You’d be surprised how quickly you can become a regular someplace, even showing up only once every couple of weeks. I came by fairly early one Sunday and he greeted me with, “You’re normally a late-afternoon guy. Probably didn’t go out drinking last night, heh-heh.” And though each time I left I told him I’d see him next time, I knew that at some point I’d be lying, because the next wash would be at home.
Soon enough, of course, our dryer was repaired, and I went back to doing laundry in the building. Still, I feel a little guilty. Does he wonder what happened to me? Does he think I’m some fancy condo jerk, too good for the corner laundry?
Or was I just another fistful of quarters.
Wash, dry…goodbye.
Jack Silbert, curator