dirty laundry

I’ve been debating whether or not to move into a smaller and less expensive place. It would mean, most likely trading in something. Like neighborhood, safety, quiet, or charm. It would mean moving to a studio, which may or may not be a good plan. My mind has been made up, at least for the time being, by what happened Friday evening.

Feeling adventurous on day a few weeks back, I walked in the opposite direction of my usual laundry mat, and decided to try out the other one. Bigger, a little less clean, but cheaper, and closer to the library, the second laundry mat won me over.

This evening, whilst awaiting a call from Emily, scheduled to arrive at any time now, I went forth to clean some sheets, towels, and rejuvenate my sock and underwear supply.

All went well, with a comic book reading excursion during the wash cycle, until close to the very end. When I returned from outside to retrieve my dry laundry, an odd couple were in the midst of an argument.

And there, between the arguing couple, were my clothes, my towels, fluffed dry and unreachable. I waited a moment longer for their anger to subside, for one of them to realize that I was there, watching my laundry and waiting for them. That moment passed, without either of them noticing. So I pushed my cart right in there, between them, and they moved away from me and farther from each other, still at sixes and sevens.

Do you have your bus pass?” he shouted over my head. “You’ll need it.”

“No one fucking talks to me like that. I’m no one’s god damn mother!” She shouted to his back as he marched out the door.

And it went on and on, with the pair of them opening and slamming dryer doors, shaking fists of wet clothes at each other, and shouting through a tour of the back and front doors.

The entire atmosphere was charged with a lunacy of rage and resentment; it was uncomfortably funny to watch. I started folding towels, carefully avoiding looking up or making eye contact with anyone. Which was difficult, as once when I had my head up to fold a sheet, another customer smirked at me, and I found I couldn’t help but respond in kind.

When I left, clean pile of sheets and towels, socks and underwear towering in my arms, I wondered if it was worth it. Should I go back to the smaller, more expensive laundry mat? Without the having library, and its collection of graphic novels, next door? How much is a few quarters worth? Being able to fetch my laundry without being in the middle of other people airing theirs?