About Laundry

All things change except laundry, the ways of laundry, and the surroundings of laundry. These never change. What one experiences in a laundry room the first time they enter one is what they always experience in laundromats afterward till the end of their days. Or something like that.

Mr. Chen from 3B approached the laundry room from the main stairwell as I approached from my garden-level apartment down the hallway. I hurried up, but my haste was futile. He turned the corner ahead of me, claiming the good washing machine.

The laundry room occupied a windowless space, lit by fluorescent tubes that hummed with a headache-inducing frequency. Four washers lined the back wall, four dryers along the right, and a bulletin board covered in passive-aggressive notes about proper laundry etiquette.

Mr. Chen claimed washer number one. The one with the strongest agitator that actually cleaned things. "Amanda," he said, greeting me with a quick peek from above his glasses as I settled up beside him.

He loaded his whites with indifference while I noted washers three and four were already running. That left washer two. My basket, filled with graphic t-shirts that represented a dozen different eras, tipped into the barrel of the washer. The oldest was the Pixies shirt from the 1991 Trompe le Monde tour. Faded black cotton, the graphic of the album cover worn to a cracked, ghostly image. I’d bought it at the Berkeley show with my brother the summer before he moved to Seattle. This was before we stopped talking. Before he became someone I only heard about through my mother’s short, gossip-driven complaints about his life, his job, his husband, and his two kids whose names I’m embarrassed to admit I couldn’t remember.

The shirt had survived dozens of washes. It was thinner now, softer, the hem at the waist curled a bit. But it was intact. It was mine. It reminded me of my brother, and it was the perfect comfort level for a casual Saturday morning during the warmer months. The shirt would make the perfect pick for tomorrow’s Super Bowl party. Edgy, alternative, and an excellent test for potential flirtations.

My laundry card slid into the washer’s payment slot. The reader blinked red three times before accepting it and flashed, deducting $2.75 from my balance. I pressed the button marked 'Cold' and the washer groaned to life with sounds of rushing water being released atop my clothes.

Mr. Chen settled onto the bench along the left wall and focused his attention on a book he seemed to pull from nowhere. The book was bright pink, or a pinkish orange maybe? A stylized wolf graphic and a bold yellow title on the cover read 'A Court of Thorns and Roses'. I had friends who recommended the book to me, but it seemed out of place in the hands of an older man I’d only ever witnessed reading wartime memoirs.

You go, Mr. Chen!

"Shit," I spun back to washer two and smashed the stop button, pausing its cycle. Mr. Chen appeared startled. "Sorry, forgot the detergent," I apologized, attempting a smile while biting my lip. His forgiveness came as little more than returning his attention to his book.

I pulled the laundry pod I'd stuffed in my jacket pocket free, then reached deep into the drum of the washer, running my hand along the outer edge. Past the shirts, past the surface of the water already beginning to pool, to the very bottom. There, I deposited the small pod of detergent. Another button press and my washer rejoined Mr. Chen's in a chorus of rushing water.

I found my way to a cracked plastic chair and shoved my headphones into my ears. Immediately, the noise of the machines cut off, and percussion and piano replaced it as 'The Fate of Ophelia' resumed its playback. Right foot tapping, I devoted myself to my phone and the Minute Cryptic puzzle I still needed to solve.

Later, when the heat of the room was finally enough for me, I pulled my loose brown waves through a hair tie from my wrist. As I was pulling the ponytail tight, the washer’s tinny alarm told me it was done. Mr. Chen had just claimed dryer number two. Dryer four had a load tumbling inside. Numbers one and three were available.

Everyone in the building knew about dryer three. There was a piece of duct tape covering a section of the drum’s interior where the coating had worn and the metal had rusted, leaving exposed a rough metal surface. The tape was old, its edges curled and gummy from constant reheating. Someone had put up a sign several months ago: “USE AT OWN RISK - MAINTENANCE NOTIFIED.” Spoilers, maintenance has done nothing.

Dryer one was my only option. My too-damp clothes tumbled into the drum. I inserted my card. Another $2.50 deducted. The dryer rumbled to life.

I looked at my watch, reminding myself I wanted to finish my laundry by 8:30 so I could get groceries before the store closed. I’d volunteered to bring my signature 8-hour spicy pork ribs to tomorrow’s party.

I could have stayed. Could have sat quietly in the cracked plastic chair and watched the dryer tumble. But Mr. Chen was there waiting on his whites. I told myself it would be fine. It was only 45 minutes; I’d done this several times before and I could use a shower before heading out to the grocery.

Timer set on my phone, I went back to my apartment to wash off some of the workday.

I returned two minutes before the dryer expired, which I considered a minor victory against the communal laundry gods. I’d successfully been considerate, and would have the dryer cleared for the next user in efficient time.

The dryer stopped. The door swung open, revealing the laundry inside. A towel. Jeans. Socks balled together… Another… Towel… A…

What the actual frick?

These weren’t my graphic tees. Across the room, Mr. Chen worked methodically, folding his whites. He turned my way, his eyes peeking above his glasses to meet mine. Then he moved his gaze toward the bench.

A damp pile of shirts, my shirts, unceremoniously dumped there like a pile of discarded trash.

“Someone took my laundry out?!”

“Yes,” he said.

“Why didn’t you stop them?!”

“Not my circus,” he shrugged, stacking his folded laundry back into his basket with his hot pink book perched on top. “You should have been here to protect your laundry. This is a you problem.”

“But, Mr. Chen…” I said with a moan.

“Sorry for you,” he cooed and left me alone in the laundry room.

Dryer four stood open and my laundry went in. Another $2.50 gone. Checking my watch, I thought about the prospect of confronting the dryer time thief. My stomach clenched with anxiety. I could avoid them if I left now for the grocery. I could secure my short ribs and get back before the dry cycle finished. The dryer time thief had already secured their free cycle.

Alarm set once again on my phone, I left for the grocery.

With four slabs of pork ribs secured and safely stored in my fridge, I returned to the laundry room. All four machines tumbled, a young boy lay on the bench, fingers mashing away on a device that produced the sounds of cartoonish video game violence.

I sat in the cracked plastic chair, legs crossed, and scrolled on my phone.

The dryer buzzed and once again I opened the door and retrieved my…

“You’re kidding me!”

“Oh, sorry,” the boy said, sitting up on the bench. “My mom insists on using dryer four; she’s weird like that. I dunno why. So I moved your things to dryer three and topped it off so we weren’t like, stealing your dryer time, you know.”

“You… you moved it to three? Did you at least check the tape?” I asked.

“What tape?” He asked, moving to dryer four. With both hands reaching inside, he pulled the laundry in a single giant bundle that dropped into his basket.

“You know it’s not polite to touch other people’s things, right?” I asked.

The kid shrugged, giving me a “Sorry, not sorry,” before he disappeared into the hallway.

I stared at dryer three. I could see my shirts tumbling inside. My heart sank as I took a deep breath, then opened the door. The dryer slowed to a stop; fresh heat blasted my face.

The first shirt out was fine. No snags or picking. I relaxed my shoulders, secured my basket beneath the door opening, hands reaching for the rest.

Rip.

The sound brought the world to a pause. Hands were mid-pull, the bundle of shirts half-in, half-out of the drum. The rectangle of tape sat exposed in the tangle of fabric, edges curled and accusatory. Overhead, the fluorescents buzzed their constant note, seeming to grow louder with mockery.

BUZZZ.

My whole body jerked as dryer number two announced its finish. Heart hammering against my ribs.

I reached in further, running my hand along the barrel of the dryer until I felt the catch. A shirt snagged on the rough spot. I carefully freed the fabric. By the delicate softness, I already knew which shirt it was.

I held it up to the light. The graphic bore a new rip near ‌the left sleeve. The fabric surrounding the three-inch hole had already frayed and weakened, showing stress lines that radiated with the weave of the fabric.

I stood holding the shirt. It was my fault. I had made the calculation: my time against the risk of leaving my laundry unattended in a communal laundry room. I had chosen poorly, not once, but twice.

I could repair it. Could take it to a tailor, have them patch it. I knew that was extreme for a t-shirt. I could keep it in a drawer. Let it sit there unworn, unmended, a memorial to a concert I’d attended twenty years ago with a brother I no longer spoke to. That seemed worse than throwing it away.

Mr. Kowalski from 5B walked in with his basket full of washable baby towels and newborn onesies. He looked awful as he glanced at me, the shirt still in my hands.

He sighed with empathy. “Number three got ya?” he asked, dumping the load of white and pastel inside a washer.

I nodded.

“Yeah, three is a gamble." He said through a long yawn. "I'd check that the tape is secure before starting a load if you have you use it.”

Silently, he loaded his clothes into washer number one. He said nothing else.

Mechanically folding my other shirts, I stacked them in my basket.I gingerly folded the ruined shirt, as if careful folding could fix the damage. I placed it on top and left feeling defeated.

"Congratulations on the baby, Mr. Kowalski." I said.

"Thanks, Amanda." He said, already slouched in the chair by the wall.

I walked back down the hall, retreating into the safe comfort of my apartment. With the clean clothes put away, my mind turned from the torn shirt to my brother.

I sat on the couch, staring at my dark, warped reflection in the blank TV screen, the ruined t-shirt in my lap. I missed my brother. I hadn’t realized it, but that shirt had become my excuse not to call. By wearing it, I defied our mother and maintained a connection with him. Without it, my private act of connection was gone, and I realized there was nothing left.

Guilt tightened inside my chest. I could have called and broken the silence between us a long time ago. Why hadn’t I? I wasn’t the one with the grudge. That was our mother’s doing, and I wasn’t under her thumb anymore. I had just been trying to maintain the peace, which they had made impossible.

On my phone, I tapped the address book; my thumb sliding through the names until it found his.

I bit my lip, weighing the risks and what I stood to lose if our mother found out. And also, what I stood to gain. Besides, it’s just as much his fault as it is mine.

That’s not true.

I scolded myself.

He had better reasons not to call. I’ve just been avoiding uncomfortable conversations and the shame they would inevitably bring. It’s been long enough.

I decided and pressed his name, starting the call.

As the phone dialed, I walked to the trash and dropped the shirt inside. I pulled the trash bag free, tying it into a knot, my phone wedged between my ear and shoulder as I did.

As the phone continued to ring, I carried the bag into the hall and dropped it down the chute. Would he even answer? If the call ‌went to voicemail, what would I say? Should I just say nothing and try again later?

There was a click and a man’s voice on the other end, “Hello?”

My heart stopped, and I stood frozen in the hallway by how he might respond.

“Hello?” the man asked again.

“Will? It’s Amanda.”