Washer Woman

September 25, 2013

It is $1 wash day. Bumping elbows with the mob at the Laundromat this morning. Big loaders are all taken, much to my chagrin. Have to toss out the sheets and one sweater that makes me feel uncomfortably like Arnold Schwarzenegger, if I happen to wear it to any event that has lights. Guarded the washer with two minutes left and reminded the senior gentleman in the nearby bluebird colored formed chair that the machine had stopped. He slid back and forth between the washer and vast dryer, grasping small handfuls of clothing draped down to his knees. I kept an expression of compassion and understanding as I watched the large clock tick away my precious packing and organizing time. While the cycle processes my clothes, I walk the neighborhood, begrudgingly collecting trash around the Humboldt High School property. At least they have a recycle bin for the aluminum and plastics. Ty and I were late for the wash and a young woman was handling my intimate apparel as I saunter in the glass door. Ty is impatient, waiting by the road, tied to a tree. The place is even more crowded than a McDonalds on a Sunday morning. All of the tables are filled with butts parked in the now warm seats. I wait for the dryer to tumble the clothes as I finish my Blog and head out to carry the weighted red plastic clothes basket the two and a half blocks home.