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For many years, before city water came to my rural community, our well went dry with the regularity of someone on Metamucil, forcing me to undertake the loathsome chore of Laundromat Duty.
This is similar in many ways to military K.P., however, there is no dog–faced drill sergeant pointing out a mountain of spuds waiting to be peeled. Instead, there are several children who have worn the same jeans for so long one can stand them up in a corner for the night (the jeans, not the kids). And maybe, there is a husband with a few tender words such as,
"Honey, dinner was great and the candles were a nice touch, but this is my last pair of clean BVDs."
My options at this point are few. Down to the creek to beat seventeen loads on a flat rock, hire someone else to do the wash at a rate high enough to buy new wardrobes, or just face the music and haul three week’s worth of ripe laundry to the local Wash–a–teria.
Off I go. As usual, the bleach spills in the car and forms yet another pink amoebae–shaped blotch on our otherwise burgundy upholstery.
And upon arrival, like every time before, there is no one around when I need help schlepping the behemoth baskets through the door. Yet, like magic, as soon as I do, the place fills up while I play doorman for everyone else while my washers get pirated by a sweet, little ninety–year–old who tells me she has only a few dainties to do.
Then, there’s the question of etiquette. Should one introduce oneself to one’s laundromat mates? Who speaks first? Should one speak at all, given the fact that the guy hypnotically watching his army blanket twirl around in the dryer, is a dead ringer for Charles Manson out on a weekend pass and looking edgy?
I choose to talk to a five year old whose mother (the one smoking two Camels simultaneously and chugging a 32 oz. Red Bull) snaps, "Don’t talk to strange people!"
The first order of business (after the lady with my washers is finished with her dainties) is making change in the innocent looking dollar–changing machine where I spend the next thirty minutes in a battle of wills, flattening and re–flattening my bills, in hopes that the evil contraption will accept them and give me my quarters. This can be very hard on those already suffering from low self–esteem. One must try not to take it personally, it’s your money that’s being rejected, not you.
When my wash is finally in, I realize I have left my book at home. How to amuse oneself for the next two hours? There’s always the complimentary reading material, Newsweek, vintage 1983, pages stuck together with a scary gelatinous substance vaguely resembling FlufferNutter.
My personal favorite pastime, however, is trying to read the Operation Instructions—the Spanish version. First, try it as Ricky Ricardo, when that gets boring, switch to Fernando Lamas, then Cesar Chavez, finally, Carmen Miranda—if there’s a produce market next door, you’re really in luck.
Eventually, my attention is diverted (thank you, Lord) by my machine lurching out of its place from the orderly line against the wall, like a soldier gone berserk––breaking ranks. I pretend I don’t notice until all my ’mat–mates have, in turn, mumbled ."not mine"
I stand in front of it, try to stare it down. There is nothing else to be done, of course, since it’s one of those washers that, until it is finished, is sealed tighter than the lips of the folks who know the whereabouts of the WMD.
Trying to push it back could be fatal, so I stare at it a while longer and mutter something astute like "stupid machine". (Make sure at least one other person hears you, this absolves you from any further responsibility)
The final indignation is the THIRTY SECOND WAITING PERIOD AFTER THE WASHER HAS STOPPED BEFORE YOU CAN OPEN THE DOOR rule. What could possibly happen if it’s opened before the little red light goes out? One might be sucked in to some parallel universe, alarms and sirens would go off, immediate arrest and hard time?
"Laundromat police, you’ll have to come with us, Miss."
Maybe, it’s like those little tags on mattresses, simply a passive aggressive method of world domination and humbling of the masses. At any rate, we conform for the most part, and are obedient children.
But, not today. No sir, I won’t be bullied any longer. As I give in to temptation and choke back my fear of becoming the next episode of Cops (even though I have all my own teeth, do not own a tank top and to the best of my knowledge, have never kept a python in the garage), I try the handle, in hopes that it will release my soggy clothing thirty seconds sooner than promised.
Oh, the joy! Thirty seconds stolen from the tyranny of laundry automation…Imagine the possibilities.
©Gloria Slater
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Gloria Slater is an expatriated Floridian, living and freezing in western NY. Her essays, fiction, and magazine articles have been seen in many local and national publications including The St.Petersburg Times, Country Journal Magazine and the Buffalo News. Her long–running, award–winning humor column, My Front Porch, can be found in the Rochester area magazine, The Good Life.
Her observational, self–deprecating humor has been described, "if Erma Bombeck's writing and Dave Barry's got together and had a baby..."
She promises never to speak of herself in third person ever again. And offers at least one spew–liquid–out–your–nose–experience to anyone willing to read through the archives at http://gloriaslater.blogspot.com
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