Exact Change Only

This fabric softener did smell good, in all fairness.

Maybe - just maybe - because it was stolen from a person who lived in your dingy apartment before and didn’t bother to clean out all of the cabinets. Can this even be considered theft? Or more like an involuntary inheritance? Whatever. Usually, when that happens, you just accept that you always liked your clothes to smell like someone’s grandma spilled her perfume all over the closet.

Ellen’s grandma has been dead for at least five years. And she never used perfume. Probably didn’t even use fabric softener, that stingy hag. Without a doubt - looking up from her cauldron, she laughs like a witch, watching her grandchildren. Ellen, in particular. Her youngest and least favorite descendant, sitting on the floor of a 24/7 laundromat in the dead of the night, with a bag full of smoke-stinking clothes lying nearby. There was a perfectly working – if old - washing machine in that house she sold before dying in a nursing home. Alas.

No one expected that after her evening shift at the grocery store, Ellen would be greeted not by a soft bed and a shower, but with the wail of the fire alarm triggered by a chicken that had burned into crispy coals. Microwaved meals were apparently the top of her new roommate’s culinary skills.

Ellen didn’t want to smell like a barbecue-go-wrong for the next shift – hence why she was currently fighting with a damn coin slot. Push the coin in and prepare to catch it when the machine inevitably spits it back. Rinse and repeat. It already took some of the change, so what’s the point of being so difficult?!

Overhead lights buzzed, like they were filled with hyperactive flies. Every few minutes, a click or a crack could be heard. Ellen imagined the flies bumping their heads on the plastic covers. Poor imaginary insects. They were probably sick of being so close to the blinking greenish glow. Ellen sure was. It bounced off the white walls, white floor, white ceiling. No place to hide from it except under a few plastic chairs bolted to the floor. Again, white. What a surprise. It was likely written in some internal laundromat code that no other color shall be used for anything other than a washing machine. Those should be yellow, for some reason. Like crumbling plastic and old bones – that shade. Rows and rows lining up the walls. Stretching right into the reflection of the front window. Disappearing into foggy night, no end in sight.

From Ellen's point of view, their insides were draped in the darkness, so there might not even be anything behind the closed glass doors. Just pure black nothing of a mock-up washing machine. There should be some mock-ups. Who needs that many washers on the outskirts of a rural town?

Nobody. That’s why some of them are surely just boxes filled with void. You just had to guess which ones, so as not to throw your clothes into the dark, endless abyss. That would suck. Maybe even more than getting pelted with your own change. But way less than moving to the other side of the country and losing any ties with your remaining family. Ellen’s scale has a weird point system; sue her if you want.

Drop the coin into the slot. Watch as it comes back. Stuff some more clothes inside so it may take pity on you and relent.

A forgotten magazine sits on one of the chairs. Sometimes Ellen hears its pages ruffle as they turn with the airflow. The AC looks like it has been dead even before this building has been built, but what does she know. Old constructions like this are prone to drafts, even if she is yet to feel one.

It’s a weird teen magazine volume. No wonder someone left it here – who wants to look at the pages filled with people photographed from the back and nothing more. There were photos of them walking down the street, sitting in the café, having picnics – all with their backs turned to the camera. They were probably some celebrities, yet Ellen couldn’t make out a single name when she flipped through it. It must have been lying here for quite some time to get that smudged from humidity… Better to leave it be.

That laundry cart has not been then when she got up two minutes ago.

There were at least a dozen of them huddled in the far corner of the room, right by the “Staff Only” door. And this one made it all the way to the one occupied washing machine at the front. Damn, this building must have been constructed awfully to have such sloped floors.

“This way, little guy.” Ellen guided the little cart back by its pole. At least there is nobody to judge her for talking to the equipment. It might be the first dialogue – monologue – where she has not been quipped back in two weeks. A “thanks” would be nice but…it’s a cart? They don’t talk. Carts squeak with their wheels, just as lamps buzz with their imaginative flies and the night street outside sings with crickets. The clock above the door is as dead as an AC, so it does not tick anymore.

There’s a bundle of cloth left in the basket. It’s greyish-blue and has stains all over it. A baby dress. It’s a tiny baby dress with a yellowed collar and frayed fringe all along the hem. It would have been cute if not for the cartoonishly long sleeves. They hung below the level of the skirt, like some novice maker didn’t bother to cut them to proper length.

“That’s a weird choice for a child’s clothing…” Ellen looked back into the cart. Something resembling a baby sock, but the leg hole was sewn shut, and a small hat with a pompom on the inside. Well, that’s one set of factory rejects… The strangest thing – it all looked worn. The sole of the sock was slightly darkened, and the hat had a few snagged loops in the knitted canvas. The dress even had E.J. initials written on the back.

Looking closer, she could see more clothes in other carts. There were jeans with just one pant and kids’ cardigans with pockets sewn to the sleeves. Blouses with buttons on the back and skirts stitched right through the middle. All in all – a whole bunch of clothes with either no way to wear or just too deformed to be presentable.

For some reason, it made a chill run down Ellen’s spine.

Maybe she was just tired. It’s just a pile of clothes. People leave them at laundromats all the time. They are probably here to be washed and resewn. No need to worry.

Walk back. Try the coin again. Ding. It hits the floor. Try again.

The door to the staff rooms gently swings open. And closes back.

Try to stuff more clothes inside. Push the coin. Catch it.

There’s still nothing behind the window. Is there even a street behind it? It’s so dark that even the driveway to the laundromat is not visible. The crickets are singing; that’s a good sign. They must live somewhere. Crickets can not live in a cold maw of nothing. There were some living in the garden behind her parents’ house. It was always warmed by the sun, and they had the sweetest apples to eat.

But what if it’s just pipes clacking from old age? There’s no way to see. What if the building is falling apart at the seams, right this minute? No. It can't. Washing machines and carts and a dead clock – it would all disappear. But that can't happen. It’s not possible. There will always be a copy in the reflection. And copy in the reflection of the copy.

She needs to do the laundry. The bag smells like soot; it would take at least a few washes to get rid of it. If it’s possible to start at least one.

Ellen sits down in front of the washer. She pushes the coin in. The halfpenny falls to the floor, 1980 side up.