Laundry Day

Too broke to afford an apartment that has laundry inside.

So I have to bag up my clothes (straps rippin) and walk them down the street to the laundromat. Summers are the worst for this. I can’t even imagine living somewhere with winters. Would you leave the house carrying a bag of clothes and a jug of detergent in the middle of a snowstorm? For what? Who are you going to see? Wait until spring.

The ‘mat is something I prefer to one of those cramped apartment building rooms where you have to share three machines (or ONE?!) for thirty apartments and the regular cat-and-mouse game of there being no available machines or even worse one almost being done and having to lurk and wait pounce, but you turn your back for one second and Susan has slipped her second load in, inevitably having to return to your individual unit and try and figure out another time to put your dirty stinky clothes into a machine and use water and soap to revert them to clean so you can walk around in public without people plugging their nose pee-yoo. Although when I go to the laundromat it feels like I am going to be murdered.

Changing my clothes over from the washer to the dryer as is the customary process of laundering and an erratic man (and this could really be any time of day or night, this fable as representational) walks inside repeating the phrase ‘photosynthesis’ over and over again to remind me of the kind of company I am forced to keep with my never-be-able-to-afford a home income compounded by student debt compounded by an interest in having fun over saving money (doing drugs), but I don’t drink out, only in, and despite all that I can’t ever seem to get ahead financially (or is that all part of the process in keeping the millennial man down too woke to not be broke), and here I am now (sunshine or nightlights) sitting and watching the clothes spin and turn around the machine hearing about photosynthesis without getting any closer to understanding why that phrase is so important. Must be all the Vitamin D he gets by sitting outside the laundromat waiting for people like me to come in and ruffle my feathers as a reminder to return into the office and tell my boss I need a raise and a promotion and a corner office so I better play the game and maybe if I keep working hard be able to buy a house and stop returning to this laundromat every couple of weeks like clockwork wondering when will it ever end?

They say “Death and Taxes.” The only two things that are absolutes. They say this, but I’ve got no proof that either even amounts to anything but participating in what we’re told we must. Die because you have to, but what if I don’t want to. Plus I know many people (won’t name names IRS) who don’t do their taxes and hardly anybody who doesn’t do their laundry. So maybe laundry is the only absolute and death and taxes are just strongly suggested. Here I am watching a vagrant (which isn’t a completely fair assumption about his station in life) wait three seats over from me doing my laundry while he does his. I’m sure he doesn’t do taxes. But a fresh pair of drawers? Nothing better.

What is it about feeling fresh and clean (so outkast) that makes us return to this hell hole of a place coughing spitting sneezing yelling scowling strangers just to wear clean fabric over skin? Can’t we all just agree that life would be better (at least might, give it a shot) without the cycle of the spin cycle? Those of you rich enough (or at least better at financial planning) lucky enough to own a home, sell your machines. We can do this together. Snub your nose up at big laundry. Who says we have to be clean? The man? The same one that says we must die and we must submit our taxes by April 14th (aphex twin) or get a big slap on the wrist nuh-uh bad boy behavior warning and we must follow the society rules while waiting for people to unload their machines and it’s not polite to lurk so just return to your apartment and hope that the next time it’s convenient to do some inconvenience the room is free from neighbors or situationally unsheltered screaming about what plants do. Maybe we can all just exist in a stink society together. Or become nudists. That sounds better than this. If you see me anytime soon, please don’t comment on the stench.