stuck on spin cycle

a short story?

The clinking of quarters passing from my left to right hand keeps pace with the low hum and drum of dryers and whirring of washers. I count out $2.75 in quarters, which means I’ve got just enough for a dry cycle and a gumball from the machine near the exit. I tell myself I’ll get a pink one this time.

Every Tuesday, I lug a sack of dirty clothes over to this old laundromat on Ludlow Street. I arrive at 7:59am and wait outside the door. The man with a face as wrinkled as a pug shuffles up to the other side of the glass and turns the key with a shaky hand to open up shop.

Morning

Morning, we mumble in synchronicity. He shuffles down the rows of machines and through the set of doors to the back room. He’ll stay there until it’s time to close up in twelve hours.

I’m always the first to arrive, because I prefer washer #16 and dryer #22. Those were the ones I used the first time I washed my clothes here over a decade ago. They’re no better than any of the others, but in a place like New York City it’s important to place a stake in the ground wherever and whenever possible. If you don’t lay claim on what you want the second you even think you want it, the city will snatch it up and hand it to someone with a richer pair of parents or a prettier pair of legs.

Separating clothes into the right types of washing groups is something I’ve never quite gotten the hang of seeing as I didn’t have a mother to teach me how to do those types of things. So I stick to wearing only black and white. It’s not so bad. Black makes for a more slender looking build. White makes every man that passes by picture himself standing across from you at the altar. Depending on the day I’ll either feel less guilty eating dessert or have a few drinks paid for at the bar.

There are two metal chairs that frame each side of the entryway, and a clock ticking above the farthest washer on the left side of the room. This is another perk of early arrival - a spot in one of the chairs. I’ve never been fussy about getting to work on time. Only the laundromat. I sit and wait for the clothes to finish. They wait around in the closet for me without complaint, it’s only fair.

I find time moves quickly in places like the laundromat. It's only waiting for things like phone calls, promotions, STI test results and bad films to finish that time moves too slowly. It’s the liminality of the laundromat. The anonymity. Places where I feel I am actually nowhere, I am no one. The places where I don’t need to stand up straight or suck in my stomach. Where I can kick back and shut my eyes for a while.

I alternate peeking through one of my eyes every couple of minutes up at the clock. When the big hand makes its way half around the dial, it’s time to swap my clothes over to dryer #22. Then, I’ll get that gumball and I’ll be damned if it’s not a pink one. I peel my sopping wet clothes from washer #16 into the roll container and slam the door shut.

I see your face reflected back at mine through the glass before you know it’s my back to you. Slowly, I stand up straight, suck in my stomach and turn around.

Your lips turn up into that same old grin, Well well, how’ve you been darlin’?

You look just the same as you did the night you leaned over the bar and told me most girls wear white when they’re desperate for a husband. The insides of my mouth are suddenly coated with too much saliva. I swallow the bile rising in my throat and muster half a closed-lipped smile. How come you were always so unphased by me?

You know this is my laundromat.

Darlin’ this is New York City, you know nothin’s yours, even when it’s in your very hands, it’s lookin for a better pair of hands.

You’d know a thing or two about looking for a better pair of hands, wouldn’t you?

This makes you laugh. You always found me funny in a way that put me off from the laughing type of mood. Did you come here to see me?

I was just passing by on the way to my honey’s place, thought I’d see what was new ‘round here. Seems not all that much.

I clamp the insides of my cheek between my teeth until I taste metal. She doesn’t even live in this neighborhood. You know that I know that. You also know that I know how it all really happened back then. If only I’d gotten that gumball to chew on before your interruption.

You take my silence as weakness in my knees, the way you’ve always thought you make me feel. In truth, my knees do feel weak, but not in the way that comes with butterflies in my stomach. In the way that the room feels like one big washing machine and I’m a load of darks on a heavy spin cycle.

I open my mouth to tell you what I think of you, the way I practiced in my head every Tuesday morning since you let the city sweep you away from me right in between a prettier pair of legs, but my mind is as limp as my clothes dripping from the roll container onto the tiled floor.

Say, darlin’, you really oughta take yourself somewhere different. Get out on the town again. Wear that tight white number ya had on the night we met. I damn near thought I’d have married ya right then and there. I’d better run. My honey’s waitin’ for me.

With a turn on your heel, you saunter toward the door. I watch you in silence, the same way I always did. With the door half open in your grasp, you pause when you notice the gumball machine.

Hey darlin’, spare a quarter for an old friend?

Friend.

I flick my spare quarter across the room. You catch it without batting an eye, feed it into the slot on the machine, and turn the dial. The last pink gumball rolls out into the palm of your hand.

Say, wasn’t pink always your favorite?

I turn to take my clothes over to dryer #22 and remind myself to stop even thinking about wanting things for myself in this damn city.

You chuckle as you pop the gumball into your mouth and walk out the door.