Bonding Over Bread

October 18, 2013

Three loaves of rock hard bread lie in wait next to the FREE BREAD sign, desperate for a new home. One father/mother/daughter team cavort in the Laundromat, folding, sorting, aligning their clothes in practical mild carton boxes that line up near the van, to take back home. They chortle and joke with one another like this dingy spot is The latest Hot Spot. The back vinyl seats have big chunks dipped out of the center, making the 32 minutes wash and 35 minutes dry wait less than ideal. I squirm and read several chapters in my book, groaning in discomfort. One hunky guy, wearing an Old Navy sweatshirt gives me some distraction. He is listening to a Hispanic station on his shiny hand radio and smiling at me in response to my stare. A weedy bleach blonde enters, sliding several tall plastic laundry baskets into the joint. “I got it” she haltingly replies to my request to assist, since there seem to be a several trips ahead of her, by the looks of the back of her truck. There were nine containers in all, some weighing far more than the owner. Everyone has left, by the time my dryer stopped spinning, save the cheerful one, and she barely glanced my way in response to my “Have fun!” comment. Oh well, not everyone has to like me.

The bubbly blonde reminds me of the clerk at the $1.49 per pound Goodwill Outlet Store. I was scrounging through the clothes, looking for the match to a fabulous boot I found when I heard a loud, “Ma’am, Ma’am, Ma’am!” I turned to find a woman barreling down on me from the other end of the aisle, “you can’t touch the merchandise on the belt until the bell rings!” I startled and dropped the boot, in spite of the fact that my first inclination was to hide it behind my back. “Is this your first time here?” Everyone turned to stare at me. I took the opportunity to gather in the people on either side. One woman, bearing vinyl gloves like at the Dr’s office, rolled up sleeves, a glint in her eye and proud sneer that made me cringe in naivety. The other side of the belt produced another large lady with similar style gloves and a wary smile. All around me, the people collected next to the belt with a stance that suggested they are ready to bolt, in a foot race, at the sound of the gun. I agreed to wait, of course, and everyone relaxed.

I took my time sorting through many piles of clothes and realized the trauma of the reprimand stayed with me for a long time. My two pair of new fuzzy socks and hand-tooled leather belt I unearthed that day amounted to $2.49. I never did discover the other boot. It is walking alone, dejected, alongside the freeway on the way to the Laundromat.