BUY A WASHING MACHINE AND A DRYER.
Please. I beg of you. For your own sake, take my advice. You just don’t want to go to a laundromat. You really don’t. I know, you’ve seen ’em on TV and in movies, and the lonely guy always meets a smart, funny, HOT girl doing laundry on a Friday night, but, I’m here to tell you that, unlike everything else on TV or in movies, that story is fiction.
I don’t really know about the Friday night thing ’cause that’s not when I actually do laundry, though I’m probably only one more dateless weekend away from such status. Nonetheless, the laundromat thing in general ain’t cool.
Let me explain.
Yesterday I went to the laundromat because I had run out of clothes and because wash and fold is expensive. I believe I’ve made that point on these pages before. So, I went to do my laundry and read some law. I read the law while the clothes are getting all sudsy. It passes the time.
Once the washer had finished, I loaded my wet clothes into one of those wheely cart thingies (a technical term) and headed to the row of dryers. All full. Not a dryer to be had. I began to wait…and wait…and wait.
Now, a couple other people had been waiting prior to my arrival, so, rather than jump in front of them when a dryer became available, I gave a knowing head nod as if to say “I know how lines work, and you were next. Have a nice day.” I like to throw a “have a nice day” into the head nod ’cause it makes people feel good about humanity.
As one dryer’s time expired, and I eagerly anticipated putting my wet clothes into it, the man using it added more money to the machine. He turned to me and apologized, throwing up his hands and saying “Sorry. They’re just not dry.” Disheartened though I was, I replied “No problem, kind sir. We’ve all had wet clothes. Dry on.” He slowly backed away.
Now, other dryers began to open up, but instead of procuring one for myself I watched in horror as other waiters, waiters who had arrived with their wet rags AFTER ME, ganked these dryers from right under my nose. What’s that about?
As if this wasn’t bad enough, in my observations I noticed a man who was employing three, THREE, dryers for the following items:
* Two bathmats;
* Two sheets;
* Two towels;
* One washcloth;
* One pillowcase; and
* Four white socks.
Every time his dryer cycle would finish, he’d reach in, smell certain items, take one or two things out, and add more money, and thus more time, to his load. By the end, I think he had the four socks spread out across the three dryers, as my wet clothes dripped on the floor. The reasons I didn’t ask him if he could consolidate his clothes were: 1) I’m not really a confrontational guy; and 2) the fact that he smelled his clothes. It was weird. I didn’t want to make this guy mad, so he’d kill me, sniff me, and then put me through the dryer. So, I continued to wait for available dryers.
Finally, my clothes made it into the cozy warmness and began to tumble. Then a few minutes later one of the very helpful laundromat workers yelled “NUMBER 8!” Though I had not taken notes on which dryer I was using, I turned with a sinking feeling. Yep, it was me. I knew my clothes weren’t finished, but there was certainly no time left on the machine. I looked into the laundroworker’s eyes, and tried to convince her that my stuff wasn’t done. She eventually agreed, and went “in the back” to turn the dryer back on. Now, I don’t know who turned it off in the first place, but Sniffy McSnifferson is at the top of my suspect list. In a less than friendly manner the laundry lady asked how much time I’d had on the dryer. I put in 48 minutes, but had not been watching the numbers change as the dryer counted down. In the end, I got 36 minutes. Close enough.
It was at about this time that I noticed laundry detergent all over the floor around my backpack. “Odd,” I thought. Which was then followed by a realization and a “Motherf#$ker.” My ginormous container of detergent had leaked throughout my bag. It was literally three inches deep in there. At least now I have the cleanest law books in town.
After getting a towel from the smirking laundry woman, I got back to the task at hand…waiting for the dryer to finish.
Eventually, I folded everything and trudged back home, my 40-pound laundry bag in one hand and the Cheer-soaked bookbag in the other. Now the bag rests in my shower, still leaking a bluish-green fluid.
So, again I say to you, buy your own washer-dryer and avoid these travails.
Otherwise, some weird guy might smell you…