Laundry Night

Laundry Night

As I left work I noticed that it was beginning to get colder... I threw my jacket around my shoulders. Apparently it had been overcast all afternoon; now the sun must have set. As I hunted for my car in the parking lot I smelled impending rain. Well, with a bag of dirty clothes in my trunk I guess that I'd go to the laundry. I found my car, slipped off my jacket and got in, started the engine, and took the freeway ten minutes to the Laundromat. Once there I parked, carried my bag inside, got some change, and started the whole process. As the place was deserted the sound of the quarters dropping in the coin box and the whoosh of water startled me. Once the whites and coloreds were happily sloshing about, I went out to my car to fish out my computer.

I placed my laptop computer on the car roof as I reached in for my jacket. As I pulled on my jacket and locked the door I watched as an old Chevy pulled into the lot... no, it's too small, it says Volvo. It was in great condition; as it pulled in beside me I stood there gawking admiringly. A middle-aged woman was at the wheel, no, maybe she was older -- she pulled into the parking space quite carefully. Original license plate... the car reminded me of a large crème marshmallow. As she got out, I smiled at her. "Are you the original owner?" "Yes," she smiled back, used to compliments for the car. She bought the Volvo in the sixties. "You take good care of it." "Yes, I'll probably have it forever, it'll probably end up as my coffin." "No," I countered, "some collector is going to make you a rich person before then." She opened her trunk and pulled out a folding wheeled basket, placed her clothes bag into the basket, and went into the Laundromat, giving me a wan smile.

As I entered the laundromat I sent thoughts to the lady who had appeared in her Volvo. The rest of the conversation was all telepathic. "So then, you must be a native." "Yes, I've lived in Los Angeles all my life." We both simultaneously flashed back on our earlier Los Angeles -- mine dwelling upon playing with friends down the street: tag in the hot afternoons of fallow cornfields, she of shopping at favorite stores with her mom, stores that no longer exist. Both of us touching the memories of each other. I wondered if I should approach her to ask if I could do something biographical. She read my thoughts and asked about my writing... "was I a journalist? A biographer?" "Well no, I'm not published, but I do some writing now and then, occasionally."

Considering that I seem like a nice gentleman, she should let me write about her. Maybe I should approach her -- she might have some interesting stories... beyond the usual for a woman who drives her original car. I half-smiled to myself. What was I assuming about a woman with her original car? A woman who would stay attached to things: an apartment house full of gifts that friends had given her in college, unusual and eclectic knickknacks. Piles of old glamour magazines. Empty cages from pets long ago deceased. The souls of past lovers.

I took my computer to the coffee shop across the street, bought a double espresso, and sat by the front window. I was struck by the calamity of glass in the place: layers of pickled fruits and vegetables, bottles and jars of colored liquids. Soft jazz played in the background. I glanced at an empty bottle of soda at the table next to me... the cap sat upside down next to the bottle. Its serrated blue edge was rimmed with a gold wavering line, its interior a pine gray. The label on the bottle was turned almost completely away so that I could see only the bar code. The bottle reflected a rectangle from the gray light outside the window. Some of the lights glinted off the bottle's round curves; the other jars on the shelf and walls colored the vaguely reflected image. If I stared closely I could marginally recognize passing cars from their small blurs.

Two older women, perhaps in their late fifties, came over with their coffees and sat at an adjacent table. They seemed absorbed in each other -- old friends maybe. As they talked I would catch small disconnected snippets of their conversation. "He had problems with his business...". "The oldest is now going to Yale, studying medicine...". As they cycled through the stories of their acquaintances they rubbed the edges of their souls, rolling them across one another like sandpaper on bisque ware, removing the roughness from the love and tragedies in their lives, leaving traces upon one another of the global flow of mankind.

When I glanced up there appeared to be a rather heavy mist outside, almost a drizzle. It didn't change the tableau of the stores across the way, but rather blended the view similar to an intervening layer of wax paper. I watched the drizzle... although most of the swarm moved down and slightly to the side, a few drops seemed to have a mind of their own, carried by a chance puff of wind up and about in another direction. Watching it had the strange affect of making me feel adrift.