Stained undergarments look dirty. And dirty is synonymous with stink. Nothing looks worse than a dirty-looking undershirt. The Laundromat smelled of powder detergent and bleach. The washers sloshed and the dryers droned away performing their daily duet. I came in search of a washer that didn’t leave my whites dingy like the washing machine in my apartment. To my conspiracy bent mind, it was simple: the apartment complex used recycled water for the washing machines to save money. Their water was gray and so were all my whites.
I put my whites in a sparkling top load washer and had begun to read the USA Today and sip a Starbucks. The sounds of the Laundromat were mesmerizing. The only other sound came from the overhead TV; a black judge was telling a plaintiff that her boyfriend owed her money for the big screen TV he purchased with her card. I tuned out and went back to my newspaper.
The door flew open and a muddy-booted man walked in with a spaghetti ball of laundry in his arms. A grey sock with red stripes fell and was orphaned from the laundry family. Shirtsleeves and pant cuffs drug on the ground as he stomped his way down the rows and shoved his laundry into a machine. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d brought a stick with which to mash his laundry – his arm sufficed.
“Bill, you dropped my sock on the dirty floor!” I turned and saw a large man with suspenders and ruddy cheeks holding up a muddy sock. He wore a Tap Out shirt and the same muddy boots as his friend. The “dirty” floor was now dirtier due to a mud silhouette.
“Bring it over here Walt. Throw it in with this load.” Walt walked over and tossed the muddy sock into the washer while Bill poured in liquid detergent. The two men left and opened the back of a filthy Ford Explorer to reveal laundry packed to the ceiling. It was packed so tight it caused the men’s muscles to bulge underneath their t-shirts as they pulled it out. They entered the Laundromat with arms full.
“Fill ‘em all up,” instructed Bill. He motioned to the 4 rows of washing machines.
“Are you using these,” Walt asked me.
“No, I’ve just got these whites here,” I said.
“You came to a Laundromat for one load?” asked Walt. “Seems like a waste.”
“My washer at home turns my whites grey, so I came down here to try and get them clean.”
“It’s important to have clean undies,” laughed Walt. This coming from a man whose undoubtedly were not clean. I laughed.
“Yes it is.” I patted my washing machine and Walt shuffled over to the change machine. He put his dollar in and nothing came out. He bumped his meaty fist on the machine a couple of times. Nothing. He pounded the machine for an obnoxious minute and the machine spit out 4 shiny teeth.
“How many quarters are we gonna need Bill?”
“I don’t know. Figure it out! There are 15 machines, they each take a buck fifty in quarters,” shouted Bill from across the room.
“I’m thinking about 20 bucks then,” responded Walt. I was thinking at least that. Walt left for a couple of minutes to go next door for his change. Bill continued to march back and forth depositing laundry into every empty machine.
“Looks like you saved up,” I said as he came in through the door on one of his trips.
“Yeah, we live out in the country and I don’t have a washer. I was just going to go to the Goodwill and buy some more clothes but I realized there were so many in the garage that I couldn’t get to my motorcycle. I figured I’d better wash ‘em.” He stuck a thick finder into his lip and pulled out a black mass and threw it into the garbage can.
“You sure you aren’t using any of these?” he asked.
“They’re all yours.”
“Thank you.” He put his last load into a neighboring machine just as Walt came back in. He emptied some change into Bill’s hands and the two began starting their machines. Within minutes every machine in the place was going. I got back to my newspaper. It was the several minutes of silence that caused me to look up from my reading. I found the two men staring into the front of a side load washing machine. They seemed bedazzled by the sloshing of a washing machine that was side load. It had a port like a submarine and you could watch the clothes slosh back and forth. It was like a windshield wiper in the rain.
The two broke from their laundry coma after several more minutes and became interested in the judge show. Both were drawn in by a biker who’d promised several women his bike and then reneged on his arrangement. I glanced over at the machine that had attracted their attention for so long and then realized the water had begun to turn red. I looked closer and could only see whites. A commercial came on and both men’s attention came back to their submarine port.
“Son of a bitch!” said Bill. “Don’t just watch, help me open this door!” Both men began tugging on the door of the washing machine and pink water began dripping out of the sides. They grunted and yanked but despite all their efforts, only managed a pool of pink soapy water at their feet.
“What did you leave in there?” asked Walt.
“I’m not really sure,” answered Bill. “I must have left a shirt in there or something. I’m not entirely sure what it was.”
“Hope those aren’t your underwear,” I said with a grin, “because I think they’re gonna be pink.” Walt slapped Bill on the back and with a loud guffaw and repeated what I had just observed, “Pink undies! Pink undies!” he goaded. Bill looked mortified. He shook his head and swore. Apparently, he didn’t think pink undies would coordinate well with his numerous Tap Out shirts.
“Isn’t there a drink called a Pink Panty,” laughed Walt. “You can sip that while you wearing ‘em!” Bill’s face was stoic.
“I’d rather wear none,” he said.
“Hell, I never wear any,” said Walt. That was about as much information I wanted to know from these men. I put my laundry into a dryer and decided to come back in about 25 minutes. My whites looked white and I was thankful that they weren’t dingy and grey. Things can always be worse.
