The Kid is bleeding dryer sheets. He's tugging them up and tossing them in--six, seven, eight sheets--in quick succession, the way an assistant funeral director sows tissues at a viewing. Pull and pass. Pull and pass. He's looks to be in his 20s, and while watching him, I realize that laundering is totally nurture. Somewhere, his mom and his sister and his older brother do the same thing.
And they all walk through the world smelling the same way: over-Bounced.
I'm washing my clothes at the Sheraton Laundry on Highland Avenue (two doors down from the popular & patioed Rojo restaurant.) It has tall windows, Brandeis blue walls, and efficient, industrial-strength machines with digital timers ticking down the minutes until completion. They tell you exactly where you stand at all times. They only take quarters.
It is Friday. 10 a.m. There are plenty of machines open, but the place is still populated. I'm a member of the grab bag of characters all vying to claim one of the laundromat's four plastic chairs.
There's The Mom who stretches her napping toddler out on one of the folding tables (see pic at left) while she pours fabric softener into five washers like she's watering a row of ferns.
There's Bad Toupee, a guy in his 60s who has the best worst rug I have ever seen--it begins at his eyebrows, cocoons his ears, and cleaves at his neckline. He wears penny loafers and vends a pack of peanut butter crackers, a Snickers, and a Coke. He pops the can open with his thumb.
And there's The Kid whose dryer sheets grow on trees. He's mouthing words to a song playing from an iPod strapped to his
upper arm. He shuffles lazily across the room. He never picks his feet up high enough for his flip flops to flop.
The timer on my washer shows '0', and since the primo dryer (Bad
Toupee endorses the one on the top row, third from
the left) is still tumbling, I must quickly decide where to dump the damp
pile. There is no time for deliberation. The Mom's cycles are up, and
she's pulling out just-spun towels and eying the dryers too.
I
choose one, but I am low on quarters, and I have no cash for change. Will
30 minutes be long enough?
Influenced by The Kid, I throw
in an extra dryer sheet, something I would never do.
My laundering
normally involves ritualistic routines. But the
laundromat's endless, unpredictable variables render those routines
obsolete. I am distracted. I hold no control. The
Sheraton Laundry has called all my shots.
My character's name is The Rattled.
1st Row: A sleeveless T from the Barking Kudu bar; lint!; abandoned shoes
2nd Row: "Abbey: Sweetest Dog Imaginable"; "No Persons in Washer"; "Wanted: Distinct Part"
