Geraldo's Squeaky Clean Wash & Fold

The fluorescent lights shining through the window were a stark contrast to the darkness that only comes at 10 p.m. on a Thursday. I opened the door, my senses overwhelmed by the bright fluorescent lights, the scent of coffee and various detergents wafting through the air, and the clanging of machines in use. To my left was a neat row of washers; to my right was a white row of dryers; and between them was a long line of tables. Vending machines lined the back wall, with a small coffee station between them. I made my way over to a washer and placed my two heavy baskets full of multiple loads of laundry on top. I turned to take in the people occupying the space with me. There was a man in the far corner, leaning on a dryer to support his tired body, with his phone propped up against the back of the machine. There were two small boys fighting for attention on the screen.

“What time is it by you, Daddy?” the youngest boy asked.

“It’s a little past ten o’clock here, bud,” the dad responded, exhaustion lacing his every word.

“Daddy, when are you coming home? Mommy said that-”

“Say goodnight to your father, boys.” A female voice cut in—presumably the mother of the boys. They both sang a chorus of goodnight, their dad parroting it back and blowing kisses into the screen instead of planting them on their chubby cheeks. The phone pinged, and the screen went dark, reflecting his face at him. A moment passed, then another. The man rubbed his face and sighed before bending over to unload the dryer. His clothes sat inside—nothing but his clothes—and he began taking them out one by one, dropping them into his basket with a defeated sigh.

Behind him, a weathered man sat at a table, wrinkles tracing his face like the rings of a tree. He had a basket of clothes and a tablet beside him, a game of what looked like solitaire laid out on the table, but he was playing with his wedding ring and staring at the wall. His shirt had a hole in the collar, and I couldn’t help but wonder why his wife had let him out of the house looking like that. The woman a few washers down from me looked like she had gotten halfway undressed from work before running out the door to come here. Her salt-and-pepper hair was still in a tight bun on the back of her head; her dress pants were slightly wrinkled from the day, but she was wearing a baggy, beat-up college hoodie. The hoodie was faded, but I could tell that it was the logo of the college I was currently attending. She looked stoic and determined, typing away on her laptop, which rested on top of the washer with a spreadsheet open. Everyone here looked like they knew exactly what they were doing. Looking back at the washing machine, I realized I had no clue what I was doing and that this was much more involved than I had originally thought. I swallowed my pride and walked up to the woman.

“Hi, I’m so sorry, I was just wondering-”

“Never start a sentence by apologizing. Try again,” she said bluntly without looking up from her typing.

“Oh. Okay. Um, I was just wondering if you wouldn’t mind teaching me how to do laundry. I know it seems ridiculous that I’m-”

“Never put yourself down when asking for a favor either.” She interrupted again. I was stunned, but right as I was about to turn and accept defeat, she closed her laptop and walked over to my baskets. She spent the next ten minutes teaching me about the different washer settings, where to put detergent versus bleach, what not to mix, how to not overload the machine, and most importantly: “One washer at a time, don’t be a dick.” Once she was satisfied that I knew what I was doing, she walked back to her laptop. I found her rather pleasant and realized her bluntness wasn’t her being rude, but her being busy. As I turned back to the rest of my dirty laundry waiting in the queue, I had the sobering realization that I had five loads of laundry and I could only wash one load at a time. It was going to be a long night.

Just as I sat down, the exhausted man went home with his basket of folded laundry, and a couple walked in holding hands. The blonde woman lifted the pink-haired woman onto an empty washer before loading up the two washers on either side of her. They were aggressively adorable. The blonde stood between the pink-haired woman’s legs, her arms wrapped around the blonde’s neck as they incessantly giggled over their weekend plans. At the burst of outright laughter from the pink-haired woman, the older man sitting at the table with me got up abruptly and went to the restroom.

I tried to focus on my psychology textbook. This degree was much harder than I had expected it to be. My concentration was interrupted by the jingle of the bell above the door. A silver-haired woman with chipped plum nail polish and the most interesting coat I had ever seen walked in. She greeted the couple and the businesswoman before turning to me. Her smile slipped ever so slightly at the sight of me, as though she realized she didn’t know me. I smiled back anyway. It was a reflex. She took that as an invitation and sat down across from me, folding her hands and leaning in conspiratorially.

“I come here twice a week at the same time. I know everyone who passes through here at this time. Everyone except you.” She said it as a fact, not to intimidate me.

“Yeah, I just transferred to the college here.” She raised her left eyebrow at the mention of college.

“Education is a wonderful endeavor. What are you pursuing as a major?”

“Psychology.”

“Psychology.” She spoke as though she were tasting something foreign on her tongue. “And what led you to psychology as a career path?”

“I like studying people,” I said, realizing it was the easiest truth I had ever said. The woman tsked at my response, crushing the joy I was beginning to feel.

“If you like studying people, then why are you reading about them?” She gently closed my textbook and waved a hand in the air. “People are out here.” She tapped the textbook cover. “Books aren’t going anywhere. You cannot understand people if you do not watch them.”

My washer buzzed, making me jump in my seat a bit. The woman got up with me, putting her single load in the washing machine as I switched mine out. I took the basket of damp clothes over to the dryer next to where the businesswoman now was—still typing into her spreadsheet. She very politely showed me how to use the dryer—a much simpler and easier task than the washer—and went back to her work. The bell jingled again, signaling another late-night traveler. I froze mid-step when I turned to see who entered. Gabe Stevenson, the gorgeous art history major in my Social Psychology class on Mondays and Wednesdays.

Suddenly, I was hyper-aware of my messy bun, the lack of makeup, and my lazy-day clothes because…because all of my clothes were dirty. My bra. My underwear. My reusable period pads. All sitting in the laundry basket on top of the washer directly next to where Gabe was carelessly dumping half of his laundry. I slowly walked back to where I was sitting, and to my horror, Gabe sat right down diagonally from me. He completely ignored me, too busy scrolling on his phone, so I opened my textbook and began reading again. Studying was not something I would ever be able to do tonight because the couple started arguing at the dryer behind me. It started as angry whispers, then there was the slam of the laundry basket on the dryer, and someone screamed, “Fine, then leave!”

And the blonde did.

The pink-haired woman ran to the restroom, crying, and slammed the door.

“This again,” the older man mumbled under his breath as he dealt out three more cards onto his draw pile.

“Every week, Tom,” Gabe said without looking up from his doom scrolling. That’s when I realized there were two washers that had finished almost two hours ago, around the same time as the businesswoman’s. I counted them out and realized they must be Tom’s. I asked if they were his, and he cursed under his breath.

“I can get them for you if you’d like?” I offered.

“Oh no, sweetheart. Thank you, though. My wife passed last year, and I am still getting used to this laundry business. I have to be able to do it myself.” He got up, patted himself down, and slowly made his way over to the washers.

“That was really nice of you,” Gabe whispered. “Most people leave him alone because he looks a little disheveled. He’s a good guy, though. We have Social Psych together, right?” I felt heat rise to my cheeks from the sheer fact that he knew me. Maybe not my name, but he could recognize my face.

“Yeah, we do. I’m Jesse. Gabe, right?” I felt myself shrivel up. I should not have admitted I knew his name.

“That’s me. I have to ask.” He gestured to my baskets and smirked. “Why do you have so much laundry? They can’t possibly work psych majors so hard that you have to wash your entire wardrobe at once?” Trying to ignore the fact that he knew my major, I responded honestly.

“I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“Clearly,” he teased. “You know you can do multiple loads at a time this late at night, right?”

“Well, I do now,” I said, moving to get up and dump my sheets into another washer. When I got back, I noticed that the only people left in the laundromat were the crying woman in the bathroom, the older man who had returned to his game of solitaire, Gabe, and me.

Gabe and I talked about the mundane classes we were taking, the places around campus we loved, and whether our football team would do well this season. Just as Gabe and I were putting our last loads into the dryers, the blonde came calmly walking back into the laundromat. She pulled their clothes out of the two dryers and began folding them quietly. She took the basket to the edge of the last table by the restrooms and sat quietly. I watched as she gently placed her phone on the table and waited. A single minute passed before she picked up her phone and sent a quick text. Moments later, her partner came out of the restroom, puffy but dry-eyed. The pink-haired woman gave her partner a small smile and reached out her hand. The blonde took it, scooping the basket up with her free hand, and they walked out as if nothing happened.

“Hey, I’m going to go across the street to grab coffee while I wait for my last load. They usually open around this time. Want a cup?” Gabe offered, while gathering his keys and phone.

“Yeah, I would love one. Two sugars, one cream.”

“You got it.” He winked as he left. I didn’t need to check the time to know the night was almost over. The smallest beams of sunlight were creeping over the horizon. Tom was folding the last of his own laundry. Mine smelled like detergent and adulthood. I spent the past seven hours in a room full of strangers, and I looked up.