The Laundromat

Barry opened the trunk and removed two baskets of laundry, then set them down by the front door of the laundromat. As he went back for the other two baskets, I left my table and went to hold the door for him. “Morning, Jack!” he called to me as he closed the trunk.

“Morning, Barry! Still on short time, are you?”

“Yeah. It sucks, too. But Cathy’s digging it. She’s catching a break for a change. You should see the picture she’s painting. I’m telling you, she’s going to be famous!”

“Awesome! Got any new stories for me?” I was always on the lookout for inspiration and new ideas for my writing.

“Just one. There’s a guy in town who’s about to be bored silly watching clothes go ‘round and ‘round.”

I grinned and went back to my table as he began loading the family’s laundry into a row of washers. The laundromat had become my de facto office, and the table was my desk. It held my laptop and a steaming mug of coffee. What more did a writer need?

Granted, I could write at home and not have to change out of my bathrobe and slippers. But the laundromat was a rich source of ideas for me. It was my own personal Petri dish, and I looked at every customer through a microscope. What were they wearing? What were they saying? Were they grouchy? Happy? Hurting? No detail escaped my eye. And from this humble setting, some of the most interesting characters in my novels were born.

I took yet another sip of coffee and resumed my work. Today’s task was editing a piece I had finished two weeks before. Writing was great. Editing sucked. But it had to be done. A misspelled word here. Maybe these two sentences should be rearranged. That entire paragraph needs to be deleted. I could hear my hair graying.

As I worked, I noticed several customers coming to do their laundry. An elderly lady who preferred to keep to herself. Ellen, who was visibly upset and didn’t want to talk about it. And Carlos.

“Carlos, mi amigo! Como estas?”

“Muy bien, gracias! Y usted?” he replied, pulling up a chair at my table.

“Muy bien, gracias.”

We had just exhausted my knowledge of Spanish and Carlos knew it. He switched to English for my benefit. “Hanging out at the laundromat again, are you? Don’t you have a REAL job?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ll show you a REAL job next time my royalty checks come in!”

“Haha! Well, hey, whatever works. Where’s Malisha?”

“No idea,” I replied. “I’ve only been here an hour myself.”

Carlos leaned closer, a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. “You know she’s going to be my wife, don’t you?”

I was floored. “I didn’t even know you guys were dating.”

“We’re not. She probably doesn’t even know my name.”

I favored Carlos with a sidelong glance. “So you’re just hoping, then,” I said.

“Nope. I’ve been watching her for months. She’s the girl for me, all right.”

As if on cue, Malisha came through the door lugging a basketful of laundry and began loading the washers on the side near the office, farthest away from our table.

“Go get your laundry, Carlos.” He grinned at me and disappeared, returning shortly with a half basket of clothes. I noticed and asked, “Only a half basket?”

“I did the rest of them at home, Jack. I do have a washer and dryer, you know.”

I saved my document on the laptop and closed it, then drained the last of my coffee. “You’re just coming here to check out the women?”

“Si, senor.”

“They make bars for that, you know.”

“Bars are for picking up meat. I’m looking for a wife.”

I could see the wisdom in that. “Why not find a nice lady at church, Carlos? Then you know she has at least some sense of morality.”

“I’m not interested in her religion. I want to know about her soul.”

I opened my mouth to protest that glaring contradiction and found that I could not. I’ve known some grossly immoral people who went to church every week, and I’ve known saints who wouldn’t give you the time of day for a dozen churches.

Carlos noticed my internal struggle and pointed discreetly toward Malisha, who was swaying rhythmically in her seat, earphones connected to a bulky cassette radio player from yesteryear. “You see that? She’s hot. I don’t mean her looks, but she’s not bad there either. I mean her soul. She’s got music in her heart. She doesn’t care that everyone else can see her rocking to the music. She’s not trying to show off the latest, most expensive technology. She dresses appropriately. No hoochie mama there.”

“How do you know she’s single?” I asked.

“No men’s clothing in her stuff, ever. I’ve looked.”

“What if she likes women?”

Carlos looked briefly crestfallen, then recovered. “I guess we’ll be best friends, then,” he answered with an infectious grin.

I went to get more coffee and found the pot empty. It was lunchtime anyway, so I gathered my laptop and bid Carlos farewell and good luck.

I saw Carlos again yesterday, standing outside the tiny town’s only theater, Malisha right beside him. I’ll be checking the mail every day for my wedding invitation.