A Stained Inheritance

The bell on the door clangs. Another patron walks in. The neon sign in the window buzzes with a blue halo and reads Open. We're always open.

I’ve been the front counter attendant at this laundromat, my sanctuary, for as long as I can remember. My spirit is renewed through bathing in the sounds of trickling water filling basins, the sloshing of wet fabric, and the rattle of an off-balance machine knocking its neighbors during a vigorous spin cycle.

Heat from the dryers fills the air. They chant their prayers with low hums and industrial droning.

Wash, spin, and dry— the holy trinity of cleansing that I worship from behind my Formica altar.

Everything in this space glows with the golden hue of an aged fluorescent bulb cover. The once blue, now green, laminate tiles on the floors are flaking and crumbling, exposing the oil-stained concrete foundation. Swollen and moldered drop-ceiling squares give way to leaking pipes and air ducts.

The smell of fresh cotton and linen anoints the room. A soft, pure scent that all my patrons strive to achieve before leaving with their items. But what I love most is the smell of dirty laundry.

The scandalous salty musk of secret love affairs. The noxious jealousy of someone not measuring up to society’s expectations. The peppery spice of anger taken out on someone who didn’t deserve it.

A woman approaches my counter and hands over a small bag of aprons smeared with baker’s dust and spattered with juice.

Dry malt and yeast emanate from the feminine and utilitarian textiles. The smell of neglect. The faint odor of a woman who checked out of her reality physically or mentally.

“Would you like to clean this now and take it with you?” I have to ask.

“How long will that take?” Her hair is perfectly pulled into a French twist, not a strand out of place. Her mouth stained red from years of applying and blotting carmine lipsticks. She was unfulfilled promise personified, and her aprons wreaked of it.

“That depends on how clean you want it. Once you leave, you’re stuck with it for eternity.”

“Can you clean it?”

“It’s self-service.” That’s true. My sticky fingers are already rifling through the laundry, picking at the stiff strings caked in flour. “If you don’t want to wash this, we can send it back for a family member to look after until it’s time for them to do their laundry.”

“Yes, I would like to do that.”

Of course she would. Most people who come in with small batches would rather run off to glittering attractions on the other side of the fog. I can see the blooming lights from my shop window. The white diffusion collects into little beads of condensation that grow and sparkle as they streak down the pane.

She probably has a high school sweetheart, the one who got away, waiting somewhere in the ether. She seems eager to begin her ever after.

“No problem, would you like to write a message to your loved one, explaining why you left this behind?”

Captivated by the unknown waiting in the far away glow, she stares out the window and tugs at the bottom of her button-down shirt to pull it straight. “No,” her gaze never returns to mine. “They’ll know what to do with it.”

“As you please,” I pulled the bag of laundry over the counter the rubbed the cool, crusted, cotton between my fingertips before placing it inside a larger parcel for return. “Enjoy your after—”

The bell jangled and she was on the other side, fading into the mist.

Business is steady. There is never a shortage of laundry to be inspected and patrons to assist with their decisions.

A few machines continue to operate for those who have no one to pass their laundry onto. They scrub their stains, apply their pastes and powders, then dry and tumble their belongings. They are meticulous. They must be. They will carry it with them, and this is the last stop for washing.

The doorbell clangs. A large, heaving pile of stained fabric, threadbare and tattered, trudges across the threshold.

Ancient acrid breath sweeps across the counter. It’s wet, smokey and sulfuric like burnt keratin blended with iron and leaf rot. Sharp tears prick my eyes and fingers tingle at the thought of rifling through the cacophony of drama.

The poor creature seems to be collapsing under the weight of the rags. Joints popping, bones cracking, spirit macerating. Secretions from the folds drip on the cool broken floor tiles and congeal into dark sticky splotches.

Remnants of lace, denim, flannel, and muslin began to fall onto the countertop in front of me. My hands eagerly pull at the bits of fabric to reveal the despondent soul shrinking further under the indignity of hauling such a mass.

“Most of it was inherited.” The soul, a man caught in the middle of his life, confessed through his exhaustion.

“I’ve seen many of these cross my counter before.”

“Can it be cleaned?”

“Of course, but it will take a while.”

He inhaled deeply and steadied his frame. “How long?”

“A mess like this could take years to sort through and clean.” I gave him my rehearsed speech hoping to deter him from the washing room floor. I could see myself raking the items across the counter onto the floor and rolling my body across the dank archives, infusing the glorious stench of hereditary shame into my uniform.

“You can stay here and clean it yourself or send it to a loved one to look after until they’re ready to come.” My hands have already started to pull some of the pieces across the counter in preparation.

“Whatever it takes,” he said with certain resolution. “I can’t leave all this with them.”

“Oh,” my voice lifts with surprise. “In that case,” I begin to push the clothes back towards my new resident patron, “you’ll find supplies at each wash station.”

He begins to recollect his items, “I don’t know where to begin.”

“Most people find it easier to begin with their own laundry and then work their way back. Some of the older items may need time for the stain removers to break them down.”

The pile reconfigures around him as he makes his way to the washing room floor. He finds a row of empty machines and begins the arduous task of sorting, applying stain removers and solvents, scrubbing and tossing smaller piles of similar fabrics into the washers. Some loads require multiple cycles before they come out clean.

He works diligently as a smattering of other patrons come and go with their clean items. Some choose to wash, but most choose to return their items to family members. He continues his washing.

The doorbell clangs, just as it has every other time. An old woman walks in with a single item. The smell is faint, soft, and sweet. Nearly flawless and entirely disappointing.

“How long,” she asks while looking around at the few patrons occupying machines.

A thunderous pound erupted from one of the machines. The man washing his final load, watches as his machine thrashes and knocks into others. The front steel panel bulges as if containing a beast trying to escape.

The woman looks across the floor to see the face of the man at the machine.

“Dad!” She grabs her item and crosses the room to meet him. With every step, time rolls back the years of age. Smaller and youthful, she stands in front of him as the little girl he knew before arriving in my laundromat.

“Hey, sweetie,” he lifts her from the floor and holds her tight. “I missed you.”

Awestruck and trembling, she asks, “What are you doing here?”

“I had a lot of laundry to take care of,” he said as the pounding diminished. “What did you bring?”

“Just a little hanky,” she said, rubbing her thumb over the embroidered initials on the pocket square. “Do you remember it?”

He takes the square and holds it firmly; the memories embedded in the fibers unravel in his mind. Christmas dinners, piano recitals, and Daddy-Daughter dances. “I remember all of it.”

“I don’t think it needs much cleaning,” she said.

“We can put it in with the rest of mine.” He raises the lid as the basin fills for one last rinse. The machine whirs and shakes during a final spin before coming to a complete halt.

The finishing alarm dings and he gathers the clean, damp, antique fabrics with the girl’s pristine cloth.

She follows him to the dryers stacked along the wall and pulls on the handle of a machine directly in front of her. He bends over and places their bundle into the chamber before swinging the door shut with enough force to hook the latch.

“Can I press the buttons?” The girl bounces on the balls of her feet, eager to participate in the ritual.

“Absolutely,” he kneels down behind her, guiding her hand to make the selections— Automatic Sensor. Permanent Press.

Sopping linens tumble in the spinning drum and the temperature around the machine slowly rises. He is used to the heat. His hair is damp from perspiration, his face flushed with red.

The girl wipes her first beads of sweat off her forehead. She stands next to her father, reaching up to grab his hand as they stare at the machine and count the minutes down.

My heart slows to the pace of the muffled pulsating thumps. I place my hand on the wall and feel the faint vibrations flow through my body bringing all the little hairs on my arm to attention. Perhaps this is what rest feels like, I think to myself, to be recharged and ready to stand behind the counter for another night or a hundred years. It’s all the same.

The tumbling ends. The lights in the room surge briefly with reclaimed power. A finishing alarm chimes its cheerful melody, and the little girl opens the door.

Steam billows out and upward to unfurl across the ceiling. The man reaches inside and pulls out two crisp pieces of pressed white linen. Each the size of a dollar. He takes one and hands it to the little girl, then pulls a money clip out of his pocket and stuffs the other between a fat stack of blank bills waiting to be assigned their values.

Everything that lies beyond the fog requires some form of payment.

He looks down at her smiling face and says, “Let’s go have some fun.”

“Yeah!” She jumps with excitement and runs ahead of him to the door.

The doorbell clangs. Hand in hand, they walk toward the bright lights in the vapor. I stay behind the counter, rummaging through the offerings of discarded treasure mistaken for dirty laundry.