So long, laundromat!
Ah yes, the laundromat: the central hub for the poor. The beauty of the laundromat is that all sorts of poor people go there. Poor white people, poor black people, poor Latinos, poor Blasians, poor teachers, poor students, drug dealers that don’t have their shit together; yes, they all meet up at the laundromat. But not me… not anymore. I’m moving in with a washer and dryer and did my (hopefully) last load of laundromat laundry as I begin clawing and scratching my way up the ladder of success (by which I mean ‘moving somewhere cheaper’).
The prospect of the laundromat seemed so alluring to me when I first moved to these apartments. I had only used the services of a laundromat once before—when our washing machine died—and that was a ghetto chain laundromat at midnight. But the cute little family-owned number down the street was just oozing with Rockwellian charm and promise. Knowing what I did about laundromats from TV and movies, I assumed the whole place would be brimming with surreal excitement, as soon-to-be lovers met by brushing up against each other while reaching for their dress socks.
There were no burgeoning relationships, though there were plenty of longing stares as too-shy people stole glances at attractive people using the Wascomat Senior on the other side of the room. Often, long-established couples would come in, dragging their whole history behind them with their laundry. Always dull to watch, these pairings just continued whatever had been going on in their living rooms here in the public arena for all to watch and find terribly dull.
What the laundromat lacked in romantic convention, it made up for in its abundance of poorly-behaved screaming children. What is it about a screaming Latino boy that makes him so attractive to the woven grate of those laundry carts? I’m not saying I hit him on purpose, but at least he had a reason to cry.
Laundromats are loud yet, in a way, they are like mini libraries. People bring their books, homework, and laptops in an effort to save their otherwise-wasted laundry time to read a mystery, study Egyptian art, and edit their resumes amidst the solid groan of churning cloth. This really puts a damper on that whole “no talking” rule at the public library. Fuck you, lady; at least I’m not drying shoes.
The dress code at the laundromat is surprisingly lax and, without a doubt, this is the laundromat’s greatest asset. It’s hard to feel less cool than anyone else at a laundromat. Rare is the well-dressed patron who sets aside a coordinated outfit for laundry day. Most people are draped in sweats or those jeans they stopped wearing out in a public three years ago and an ill-fitting graphic tee. Abandon all ego, ye who enter here, because no one comes to the laundromat to look good. In a way, the laundromat serves as a sort of purge. You don’t look good, but it’s OK, because no one expects you to look good, even though you’re in public. These occasions are few and far between.
So laundromat, I will do my best to remember all you’ve taught me when I put my quarterless loads into the washer/dryer awaiting me in my new basement. I must admit, you do have certain charms that I will miss… but not many.
