The Laundomat

The most comforting public place I visit is the Laundromat. The library used to be the one place where I could relax. Losing myself in the rows of books, finding a quiet cubby to sit and read, creating a private world, a bubble, inside a building full of quiet activity was an amazing thing to me. Nothing could compare to the scent of aged pages, the sound of pages turning, quiet whispers that I couldn’t quite hear. Times change. The rooms filled with record players and headphones are gone, the warm pop and hiss of vinyl replaced with the cold clatter of keyboards in a computer lab. It’s not my world any longer.
I sit in the Laundromat surveying my new domain. At first glance the place seems anything but comfortable, comforting. The bare fluorescent lights shine harshly off row after row of enameled white machines. The ceiling is old and discolored from years of moisture and heat. The seating provided is on molded plastic chairs attached together on long frames, forcing strangers to sit next to each other or stand. These chairs are comfortable for about five minutes, them my tailbone feels like it’s trying to push it’s way out of my skin. There are video games available, but they are either broken or ancient. When was the last time you saw Galaga next to Ms. Pac Man? On the surface there is little to recommend my little oasis, nothing to make you say, “Hey, I think I’ll get some laundry together so I can hang out for a while. That’s just the surface.
The smell of a Laundromat is unique. The mingled smell of detergent, fabric softeners, and the chlorine scent of bleach is more pleasant to me than any perfume. The ceiling fans they put in place to counteract the heat of the washers and dryers serve also to deliver gusts of these scents individually. When someone adds bleach, for a fleeting instant you know it. As a dryer is unloaded the familiar scent of certain brand of dryer sheet is brought to the fore. It’s like being wrapped in a comforter fresh out of the dryer on a cold day.
The sounds of the Laundromat are probably the most comforting. There is a constant hum that surrounds me as I sit on my hard, comfortless bench. If the place is full, the sound becomes a quiet roar. When I’m almost alone, I hear the change every time a washer stops or a dryer quits tumbling. When it’s loud, I feel like I’m being lifted up on a steady, firm, wave of sound. When it’s quiet, I feel like an old friend is whispering in my ear.
My favorite part of the Laundromat experience is the people who share it with me. Everyone I see in this spotlessly white oasis of light and sound seems to have a vulnerability to him or her. When you meet the eyes of another visitor they are almost always either guarded or timid. If I give them a friendly smile, his face softens or her mouth loses the nervous tightness that I know I used to have in places like this. We are all brought here for one common purpose, to make our own world clean again; to remove the stains and soil that gradually covers our lives.
I sit on this hard plastic torture device and I feel a link to these people. All of us come from different places. Even when two neighbors meet each other here under the fluorescent brilliance, they come from different worlds of experience. Some haw a bond is created between strangers, and an even deeper bond between friends.
Once a girl sat down next to me and after 20 minutes of silence pointed to the book I was reading and asked me to proofread something for her since I seemed like a smart guy. I agreed and began to read the most heart wrenching and oddly beautiful letter I have seen to this day. The letter was with all the skill of an average grade-schooler although she had to be in her late teens or early twenties. It was a letter to her parents, explaining to them why she had left home to follow the man she loved. This man got her out of state then became abusive. She had gotten away from him and was living in a church sponsored safe house, but it was a group home so she was afraid of some of the people she was living with. I proofread for spelling and grammar, but what I read was courage. Although simply written, this letter was private, personal, and deeply emotional. What kind of bond exists at the Laundromat that allowed her to show this to me, a complete stranger, after simply sitting next to me, sharing my hard plastic torture, for only 20 minutes?
This is my Laundromat. The scents comfort. The sounds lull. The humanity is without bounds. If I could volunteer here like the candy stripers at the hospitals I would. What greater service could I provide the world than making everyone welcome in my home away from home.