The
dearth of sound in the empty lot
The
laundry man’s preferred location is next to a large provider of fine liquors,
alcohol, and/or booze for thirsty individuals. This means one can expect no less than two winos loitering somewhere
along the street in front of the store on the corner, the laundromat next door,
and the motel on the right side of the laundromat. They are the gentlemen no one speaks of (or
speaks to, for that matter). Gentlemen
whose days have been better and whose nights would be ended but for the saving
grace of sweet Lady Liquor. They are
sometimes loud, at times a bit shaky, but always a reminder not to drink alone.
The
parking lot for the Laundromat requires customers to drive around back through
an intricately hidden driveway. It cost the
laundry man several sidewalk excursions and two Tall Lattes from the Starbucks
establishment across the street (105 calories and $5.90, no tax) to eventually
discover the hidden oasis. As he circles
around and enters the hidden parking lot it appears to be at capacity, though on
closer inspection he does see one parking space in the rear corner of the lot,
facing the chain link fence of the motel. On his more inquisitive or introspective days he wonders why he is
always granted a spot by the urban gods, but on this particular day he does not
question divinity and proceeds into his place in the line-up. He finds himself between the eight foot-high
red pickup truck and a rather timid beige Corolla, itself nudged between the
aforementioned phallus and a poor orange imitation of the A-Team’s garishly
painted van. The laundry man keeps his black
supermarket sun glasses on as he steps out of the street-worn Jeep (a deep
shame of his, for you see a Jeep is not intended to be driven into the grave on
asphalt) and walks around to the other side where a passenger seat stands
between him and three blue garbage bags full of laundry (he failed to appear at
the Laundromat last weekend). He
collects the sacks, over the shoulder they go (two in one hand, one in the
other), and walks across the vastness of a parking lot devoid of life. Behind him the Jeep acknowledges his parting with
a single beep.
The dearth of sound in the empty lot becomes all the more apparent as his footsteps
and the melancholy sobbing overtake him. One glance to the right, beyond the green
fence and low-hanging branches of trees in dire need of a pruning, reveals the
source of the latter: violin guy. The
red faced, curly haired youth sits on the stairs behind the motel, where the
smokers and the more entrenched motel residents gather in the evenings to talk
of days past and days to come. It is in
the late afternoon, when the laundry man visits, that violin guy plays the
sweet, sad songs of forgotten masters. He sits facing the back of the motel lot, away from all eyes that may
come upon him. The left wrist locked
then vibrating then back to steady in the span of two or three blinks of an
eye; the bow gently gliding across the worn resin. The laundry man, a simple man, does not know
of tone or harmony or chords, but he hears the weeping of violin guy’s
instrument and knows it is something he should appreciate when he can, as he
has for the month and some days that violin guy has been sitting behind the
motel, playing the undeterminable serenade for the motel residents and
laundromatters carrying their bags and baskets across the lot. Several seconds later the laundry
man nears the back entrance to the laundromat where he sees a duet of dirty
pillows on the ground, next to a gray cast-metal pole. A leather strap lies tied to the pole, and
tied to the strap lies a boney, white brown-splotched dog. The dog has discovered pirate treasure (or
something just as interesting) behind the nearby rusted green dumpster, and
pays no mind to the laundry man and his garbage bags.
He
enters the building to find the familiar glow of sickly pastel yellow and a
news program playing on the television hidden away in a recess of the wall
above rows of glass holes. Further along, at the bottom of the convenient
ramp, he is struck by the enticing aroma of fabric softener and drying sheets. It fills the space, the gaps and crevices,
and engulfs the rather unsavory air around some of the more
free-spirited individuals in the Laundromat. The laundry man holds his bags closely as he
maneuvers through the gauntlet of laundry baskets, bags, and carts that people
feel compelled to place along his path just before he arrives. Once he reaches the other end the laundry man
discovers that the machines he intended to use are available. His machines are always available, another
apparent gift from the urban gods. He
chooses three machines; one for the contents of each of the three sacks. First are the whites (not many of those),
next are the browns/beiges/grays, and finally, the largest load: the blues and
blacks. The laundry man’s vast
collection of denim pants, in varying shades of blue and black, are always the
largest load. Once the three loads of
laundry are safely placed in the machines he opens the black slots along the
top and pours in an equal amount of detergent and fabric softener, each in the
specified holding area where the liquids wait to play their part in the thirty
minute cycle. The fate of the laundry
is, for the moment, out of the laundry man’s hands.
The
laundry man wanders outside with phone in hand and makes a call to the cousin, who
had left a voice message the day before. The cousin has a request.
“I’ll
need more information.” The cousin
responds, explaining what is needed and when. The laundry man listens intently; the brown-splotched dog
continues swiping its dirty paws at the corner of a green dumpster and the bow
continues sliding along strings of inexpensive metal. Twenty minutes are invested in listening to
the details of the request, discerning the details past the broken English and
worse telephone signal. The cousin asks
a question.
“Don’t
worry, it won’t cost a lot.” The truth is
it will not cost anything. The laundry
man is in debt to the cousin for inviting him into his home when the laundry
man was a wandering soul with no Laundromat to call his own. In all likelihood the laundry man will now
feel obligated to travel out beyond the shores of his land – across the lush
mountains to the East where men with families live to provide a better
environment for their children – to visit the cousin in the heat and quaintness
of his valley home. But the cousin and
his wife are good people, so the laundry man should not mind. The laundry man ends the call with thoughts
of unwanted travel on his mind. It
bothers him; he does not know why. He
returns to the interior of the Laundromat to stand next to the machines, watching
the television and not knowing what he sees.
When
the machines cease their violent vibration the laundry man opens them and
reloads the three sacks. He stands and
stares at the wall below the television; two rows of ten large, emotionless
eyes stare back at him. He chooses two
from the many lined up along the wall and pulls the doors open. The white laundry is required to remain alone
for reasons unknown to him (and others as well, he suspects) and are loaded into
one hole alone. Along with the whites he
places two sheets of sweet-smelling fiber, the same sheets that are found littering
the Laundromat floor. A girl appears on
his right as he starts to seal the hole again, slipping through between the
laundry man and a large basket someone placed on the opposite side of the
aisle. She is very young, and obviously of
southern origin, wearing a shirt marked with green spots of varying
size and tone. The laundry man smirks,
unbeknownst to him, as he recalls a time when he wore clothing very much like
the girl’s shirt. He returns to the
other sacks and empties them into the second hole, placing three of the same
fibrous sheets in along with the dark laundry. As he stands there placing the laundry in the hole the green-spot girl passes
behind him no less than five times, each time pressing closer and closer to him
until he feels she will suffocate him. The laundry man’s smirk vanishes as he thinks to himself that the girl
should learn to control her affections, or at the very least restrain herself
from rubbing against strange men.
When
the laundry is loaded and trapped in the inescapable thirty minute cycle
the laundry man retreats to the empty lot once again. He faces the loneliness, accompanied only by
the rather somber melody from violin guy echoing to him across the lot and
trees, in order to retrieve a book purchased from the local book retailer. He beeps the Jeep (two beeps this time) and
then unlocks the door to pull the book out of its plastic bag; a tale of death, with an introduction by the author’s melodic
muse. He takes the book and
returns to the Laundromat where the indoor park benches await. As he approaches the benches near the front
of the Laundromat he notices three whimsically cloudy men sitting,
huddled on the wooden bench farthest from him. One sits with a device atop his lap, the two others flank and chat with
him. The laundry man forgets the men are
there just as quickly as he noticed them, and takes his place on the empty
bench. He looks at the symbols
sporadically located throughout the pages of the book, and finds meaning in
them.
What
would you do if you went for a stroll with Death and she offered you a hot dog?
Time is derailed as the laundry man sits, and when he finally
glances up from the book he sees that the cycle is complete. He pulls a strip of paper from his pocket,
the receipt for the book, in fact, and places it in the book to remember where
the symbols resume their message (he will more than likely not resume for
another month). He pulls the garbage
bags from his pockets and proceeds to the fill them with the fresh and
admirably clean laundry. He should fold
them but the Laundromat is fast becoming full, and he does not wish to linger. The laundry man is not one to quibble over
wrinkles.
Three
sacks full of laundry and a book rolled into his back pocket, he returns to the
entrance, leaving behind the sweet aroma and green-spot girl and men
reaching over each other’s laptop devices. As he leaves the Laundromat he looks to his left to see two people, one
a short, stout blonde woman and the other a lean, dark haired man, sitting on
two dirty old pillows. A white dog splotched with brown sits between them on its haunches, looking in the
laundry man’s direction. The people on
their pillows do not notice yet another man walking out with his clothes in
hand.
The
laundry man walks across the parking lot. Overbearing silence indicates it is late in the evening. The laundry is once again complete.