2:58 - Delicate Wash

How long does it usually take for a pair of jeans in the washing machine to deteriorate into nothing more than faded scraps of fabric? Three hours ago, I had guessed two, yet the restless spinning and steady hum of the machine didn't give any indication of stopping anytime soon. And who am I to argue with the sacred laws of Jean Wash? 

 I’m sitting on the ground, with my head rested against an empty drum, opposite my unalive captor. My phone must be dead, otherwise I would find comfort in watching primitive videos of cats falling off couches.  

Although I cannot be sure, my memory seems to be clouded by the mundane sound of spinning fabric. Is it really dead? I do not know.  

Can I check?  

Yes.  

Am I gonna?  

Probably not, otherwise I would have already done so instead of contemplating it.  

  The silence beyond the spinning is strangely defeating.  There is no one else here, just me and my jeans. I can almost swear that every time their spinning cycle brings them up against the glass, they smile. 

"We are still here." 

 I smile too. "I know. So am I.” 

Why do I smile, I do not know, maybe I simply chose to believe they are just as much of a prisoner as I am. They could just as well be the wicked mastermind, slowly driving me insane until my irises mirror their own spinning.  

I force my head to fall back, my gaze to tear away from the drum and to land on the clock, just as circular as the face of the washing machine. I squint my eyes to read the time. But what am I trying to see? That my jeans have been washing for an excessive amount of time? That it's probably past the point of what's normal?  

The clock itself seems to be questioning me too, instead of working like any other would, its hands seem to move of their own accord: a slow circle, a fast circle, slow, fast, slow, fast.  

"Do you wish to know the time?"  

"I do."  

"Do you?"  

"Not really."  

"Then don't look at me."  

"Okay."  

My eyes fall back to the washing machine. Strange. I resorted to taking orders from a clock. We all hit rock bottom eventually. Except my rock bottom is accompanied by a wicked washing machine, while others are at least lucky enough to be there alone.  

With nothing else to do, I start counting.  

One spin.  

Two spins.  

Three spins.  

Three spins.  

I said that twice.  

Five spins.  

I lose count. The jeans seem to be mocking me, always pressed against the glass in the same position. The left pocket has a tissue half sticking out. It will be a mess once I take them out.  

"If you take us out."  

"What do you mean?"  

"You know what we mean."  

"I do not."  

Quiet, although I think I heard them laugh. 

I should check how much time is remaining in the program. I should. It’s a great idea. One I should have had...three...four.... at the beginning. Yes, at the beginning. Whenever that was.  

Yet I cannot bring myself to tear my eyes away from the spinning. To bring my legs to support my weight and take two steps to see the dial. 

I feel like I am back in my Halloween costume from last year. A giant inflatable Panda, making every movement require an excessive amount of energy. Except my body is my own Panda, and my mind is the only part of me willing to move.  

“I have to get up.” I tell my legs. 

“Why?” 

“Because.” 

“Okay.” Their agreement appears to surprise them as much as it surprised me. 

The simple act of standing up feels strangely foreign. Although that pales in comparison to the two steps that bring me face to face with the washing machine. With my left arm I brace myself against the wall and look at the control panel.  

My breath gets stuck in my throat. My clouded mind struck by a cold check back to reality.  

The display reads 2:58 hours. 2 hours and 58 minutes remaining of the Delicate Wash program. I remind my body to breathe.  

That is fine. Understandable. I must have stopped it.  

My breathing evens out as I desperately hang on to that thought. My last thread of normalcy in this bizarre predicament. 

I savour it for a moment before it’s cut short by my jeans.  

“If you stopped it, why are we still spinning?” 

“Maybe it’s still finishing the cycle.” 

“You don’t believe that.” 

“I don’t.” 

A part of me wants to argue with them, ask, beg them to clear my mind, to lift the haze clouding my thoughts. I almost do when the mundane spinning sound I came to call my companion changes.  

It doesn’t stop. But is joined by a new, faster one.  

I whip my head towards the sound, what was meant to be a fast movement becoming slow, suspended in the air which had turned into Jello. 

The second washing machine is louder, its spins being more restless, shaking in its place. The foam builds up quickly, covering whatever contents that were being washed. My own machine momentarily forgotten, I look around in search of the person who turned it on. Yet not a soul is to be seen in this god-forsaken laundromat.  

They must have left, or crouched down behind something, somewhere... 

I wait. The sound of my laboured breathing swallowed by the sound of now two machines. 

One minute, two, there. Or at least I think so, but I came to understand I should not believe time as I used to.  

“Why is it spinning?” I whisper to my jeans. 

Nothing, quiet, just the hum of spinning. The one time I’m asking, nobody bothers to answer.  

I wait again. I don’t move, and I’m not sure it's by choice, or by the sheer dread locking my muscles in place. The second one continues its frantic spinning alongside the persistent hum of my own – which is strange, how I came to call it that. 

I stare at it, waiting for something to happen. For my jeans to answer. For someone to appear. To explain why a second washing machine is running at an empty laundromat.  

Nothing, just the spinning, silently holding my gaze.  

I wait.  

And wait.  

Then the sound changes, it grows louder, stronger. And it’s not just two machines now, the humming picks up from all directions. I stay planted in my spot, watching the strange spectacle unfold.  

All the washing machines are spinning. Some fast, some slow, some filled with clothes, some empty. All different apart from their unified purpose to make me question my own already questionable mind. Creating the most absurd symphony known to the human world.  

I don’t move; I don’t breathe. “What is going on?” I say, although I doubt it is audible through the cacophony.  

This time, my jeans hear me. 

“Washing.”  

“…What?” 

“You asked. Isn’t that what happens at a laundromat?” They chuckle. 

Then everything stops, the absence of the persistent hum leaves a ringing in my ears.  

Beep.

A single cheerful chime putting an end to all of this. Ending the cycle.  

I feel myself return to my own body, my legs belong to me again, complying to orders without needing my persuasion. 

I stride over to my washing machine, now obediently showing 0:00.  

I take the jeans out. The tissue in the pocket had predictably disintegrated. I will need to wash them again. But not now, and certainly not here. 

Without a second thought or picking up my change, I exit the laundromat. I afford a single glance back, the door of my washing machine yawning wide open.  

“See you soon.” It smiles.