At the Laundry

I was coming out of Papa Gino's the other night . The night was crystal clear and the stars shining impossibly well. I was astounded then at how the wintry air smelled. Like baby powder. I glanced around and realized that this sweet air was wafting out of the laundry. It made me smile but then I recalled a night at the laundry- at that very laundry- that was so dark and so void of light. I wrote about that night a long time ago. I am posting it here, unpolished....

Jack’s car is sitting out in the side yard under a few feet of snow. It’s been there since the third of July. It’s got a bum transmission, or so says he. He says he’ll fix it in the spring. Too much work to dig it out, now. Not like he knows his way around a toolbox, never mind a gearbox.

You and the boys tumble out the front door, Matt screaming dibs on the front seat. You’re trying to wrangle two big green garbage bags, filled with dirty clothes, down the steps. Adam is three so he is trying to jump on them, while you drag them.

Oh, shit. You haven’t been to the laundry. And you have that harried, pissed off look on your face.

I push the electric window button, the tinted glass slides away. The snowflakes are big and puffy and they swirl into my warm space, pelt at my face. I try not to look perturbed as I eye the bags, “I guess a little laundry trip’s in our future, huh, Mag?”

I’m a little more than ticked at this extra chore. I hadn’t planned on an afternoon at the local Soap n’ Suds. I’m thinking, geez, can’t you get your friggin’ act together? But I quickly determine that it would not be wise, nor kind, to dump on you right now. Your face looks like it might break in two if I load you up with my own petty crap.

I swing the car door open; the snow is soft and fluffy, almost deep enough to drift into the car. I grab the steering wheel and slide off the warm seat into the cold and blowy. I do a run and slide to where you are. Grab one of the bags. I’m trying to be playful, hoping that it’ll melt my annoyance and lighten your mood, all in one glide and slide.

“I’m really sorry,” you say, your mouth all quivery. “Jack was supposed to friggin’ help me get all the clothes together, so we could get the cab, and get to the laundry before you got here.”

The boys are looking at you, kind of holding their breath, curbing their desire to frolic. Waiting for you to crack a smile, waiting for this storm to pass. I shoo Matt into the back seat. He and Adam unnaturally comply and settle in, sitting too erect, too quiet.

“I could kill that bastard right about now.” Your words are so hot and mad that I have to laugh. You don’t. “I could. I could really friggin’ kill him.”

Jack finally appears in the doorway with jeans and a white tee shirt, no socks, no shoes, no coat…clearly not ready to help, clearly not ready to go.

“I’ll get a taxi, Mags.” You give him no response. “O.K. Punkin’?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

I cringe at the ‘Punkin’. Don’t know why, but it makes my eyes want to roll. I suppress the urge. He’s trying to be endearing when you obviously just want to punch him.

“What’s up, Mag? The Punkin’ card ain’t gonna play today?” I’m still trying to cut through the angry red air. But you’re too mad to quit.

"That’ll be ten bucks more than we got for the friggin’ cab fare, Jack.” You practically spit out his name, your nose scrunches, and the “k” sound stabs the air like an ice pick. "Where you gonna pull that? Outta your ass?”

You’re mashing the bags onto the boys’ laps in the backseat. You’re breathing hard, so pissed. “If he’d just gotten his ass outta’ bed in time,” you say to me, not caring if he overhears. Matt has slumped down, has tunneled into his coat, so that only his hair and eyes show above the coat collar. Adam’s had enough of this tension he doesn’t understand, arches his back and mimics you,

“Yer ass inna bed”. This doesn’t even cut it. I get back in the car and adjust the rear view mirror. All I can see are the two boys’ heads peeking up over the green bags.

We haul the bags into the laundry and you start to load up the machines. I am amused to find that the damn machines have names. I announce in a game show voice, “Today, we’ll be engaging the sudsy services of ‘Ned’ and ‘James.’” But still, the thundercloud over your head. You yank at the clothes in the bags and stuff them into the machines with a vengeance.

I pull a twenty out of my wallet and get some fives from the girl at the counter. The boys are at my elbow. They stare at her talon- like black fingernails. I’m a little lost in this country, so I ask where the change machine is. She clacks her bubble gum and points a black tip over to the far wall. Matt and Adam break into a run, this apparently a favored activity. They take turns feeding the fives into the change machine slot. When it grabs, it kind of yanks the bill from your hand, and then gobbles it, sucks it in. There’s a churning sound and then it belches heavy silver quarters into the steel cup below with a satisfying swish. I can see why they like this.

You are still fuming so I let the kids pick treats from the vending machine. They get Cokes and Cheetos, and I bribe them with the promise of more quarters for the bubble gum machine if they can sit and be quiet for a few minutes.

You are staring at the glass bellies of Ned and James, transfixed by the sluice and slosh of the sudsy water, the hum and the rhythm of the agitating steel tubs.

“I just can’t stand the way I’m livin’,” you say. There’s such a dead flatness in your voice. Nothing I can say can make a dent in your mood. Your anger has suddenly blackened into defeat.

“I think Tootie’s the only one who can trump my life.”

“Tootie?”

“Yah. Tootie. The taxi lady.”

I laugh. “C’mon, Maggie. That’s impossibly funny. You gotta know it. Tootie the Taxi Lady? Hysterical!”

You’re not laughing. Your face is flat, almost motionless. Your eyes look sort of dead in their sockets. “Well, you wouldn’t think so if you only knew.”

I prod, hoping that Tootie’s tale might have a funny edge that’ll make you smile. So you tell me Tootie’s story. She’s the only day driver, so you see her a lot. You say she’s about fifty going on seventy. Seems her hard life is wearing her out, too. She chain smokes unfiltered Camels. She tells you how she has to drink a few “coolies” every night, just so she can sleep. She has a creep for a husband, and a pimpled son who sits around all day playing Atari.

When you think your life is bad, you say you always try to think of Tootie. Her daughter, Julie, drowned at Beaver Lake, when she was only three. Tootie was lying right there on the beach when it happened. She tells you that more than half the time she just wants to swim out to the middle of the lake and drop like a stone. She tells you-every time you pay the fare-to kiss your boys at least a hundred times a day.

Ned and James chug along.

“Sometimes I think Tootie’s got a good plan,” you say. All I can do is reach across your back, cup your shoulder and squeeze.