laundromat

Posted: February 18, 2011 in otiose
Tags: , , , , ,

My housemates made mention of wanting to get a washer and dryer for the house before Christmas, so I’ve been holding out on the local laundromat in hopes of their arrival since…before Christmas.

Well, they haven’t shown up in the basement, so needless to say, my laundry has needed washing for a while now.

I finally gave in, packed it all away, and ventured off to my laundromat. There’s one half a block from me, but I don’t like that one very much, so I go around the corner.

Today, I met a boy by the uninteresting name of Mike, but his hair more than made up for it. He had a scintillating fro–not too big, but just big enough–straight out of the seventies, but he didn’t look to have hit the legal drinking age yet. He said hello and asked me what I was reading.

Fuck me, I’m still trying to get through Walden and definitely don’t want to talk about it. Please, don’t think I’m a prick for trying. God, it’s awful.

He deliberately got in my way a few more times, and left his personal affects out for me to steal them. I liked his things; they were simple. His keys did not have a panic button or remote start option, and his phone was not smart.

There was an awful lot of pink in his laundry.

I wondered what sort of pretty girl he must have that she could convince him to do her laundry. I’ve never had any male aside from my dad so much as think about running my clothes through the wash for me.

I’m wearing bright green with purple and red today, but all of my laundry consists of grey t-shirts and blue jeans since I generally only bother to get dressed for the day job and nothing else can go through a laundromat. Hundreds of white socks. We looked at each other’s laundry, and I suspect we both were wondering whose laundry the other had.

He talked on his phone for a while about bills with the interest only allotted to those that haven’t dealt with them before. Break them all down. Isn’t that satisfying? I’m a grown-up.

Playing house.

Another boy took this opportunity to wait until I was bent over my laundry to swoop up, look down, and ask me about the dryers. Really? Why don’t you just shove your quarter in and see where it gets you instead of asking me how much it costs to run? It’s not complicated. See the little slot there with the giant arrow and the flashing digital read-out? There’s everything you need to know. It obviously doesn’t run on nickles, silver dollars, wishes, good intentions or laundry tokens.

“Quarters Only”

He asked me, either because he wanted an excuse to say something to me, or he was just plain dumb. Maybe he’s had a girl doing his laundry his whole life, and I was the only female there that spoke English; skewed “standard American” English from the upper mid-west, but more English than the only other woman in the place was about to let on.

Left alone, I got sick of Walden and picked up one of two magazines available. I took the one for backpacking, forcing a middle aged man to pick up Cosmo…only to throw it down in disgust a minute later while I read about how stupid “wilderness buffs” are, approaching the same level of disgust.

Mike knew to take out the padded bras and slinky black dress before loading the dryers. He knew to filter all that pink shit out from the white, but that boy…that silly boy let that gold sequins top spin around and around while he shot the shit about his overwhelming excitement to be out on his own with four housemates. Somebody–somebody very lucky to have captured a boy with stellar hair and a wonderful accent who’s willing to do her laundry–is going to be very upset with him.

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