The People You Meet

“How much longer do you think we’ll have to do this for?” It wasn’t the first time she had asked. It probably wouldn’t be the last.

“I dunno. However long it takes for us to pick a new machine I guess. Hopefully it won’t cost too much.”

What I hadn’t worked out a way to tell her yet was that I didn’t really want a new washing machine. Not yet anyway. Yea, loading up your car with a week’s worth of dirty clothes and driving down to the local Laundromat sounds like a real pain in the ass. Once the clothes are in the machine though, there’s nothing to do but wait. All that boring shit you were hoping to get done at home? It’s not going anywhere. Maybe you’ve brought that book you never have any time to read, or maybe you’re happy just staring off into space for no good reason. Either way, for the time being it’s just you and the sound of the machines going through their pre-programmed cycles. Even on a night as cold as this one, the air is warm and filled with the smell of dryer sheets. All is right with the world.

At a moment like that, the last thing you want to hear is the ringing of the dollar store bell hanging over the door. As illogical and unfair as it might seem in a place that’s open to the public, there’s a small part of everyone that feels like anyone who is late to the party is an intruder, someone not to be trusted. Laundromats seem especially prone to this feeling. On the one hand you can generally come and go as you please. But, you’re also quite literally putting your dirty laundry out there for the world to see. Outside of a whorehouse, I don’t think there’s anywhere else you run the risk of putting yourself on display in such an impersonal yet potentially embarrassing way. Don’t believe me? When was the last time you risked dropping dirty underwear in front of a stranger? You can’t get much more revealing than letting someone you’ve never met before get a view of skid row.

From the corner of my eye I see the intruder walking towards us with a purpose. I’m hoping the fact that my wife is the more approachable one will override my closer proximity to the entrance.

“Excuse me.” He asks. My hopes are officially dashed.

“Do you know how this machine works? I’ve got a load in there, but it stopped halfway through and now I can’t open the door.” Seriously, here I am minding my own business and this douche decides I look like the front loader fount of knowledge.

“No man, not really. We always use the top-loaders. They’re cheaper and there’s more of em.”

“Oh, it’s just that it’s stopped and I don’t know why.”

“Yea, looks that way” I tell him. “Like I said, I don’t know a whole lot about washing machines”

“Oh…. Well the display says ‘Err’. Any ideas?”

This. Fucking. Guy.

“Sorry dude, I’m not gonna be of much use to you. You might wanna call the number on the wall over there.”

Apparently my wife has decided “through thick and thin” doesn’t cover situations like this. If her face was any closer to her magazine I’d think she was flipping through a book of scratch and sniffs.

“Oh... that’s ok I guess… Thanks anyway.” He shambles off towards the spiteful front loader in the corner while I’m trying to decide if the unspoken “for nothing” is worth making a fuss about.

“Honey…..” The look on her face as she cuts her eye at me above the pages of her magazine says it all. No fuss will be made today.

I have to admit I’m something of a people watcher. That’s not something you get very good at unless you work out how to make it look like the person you’re watching is the last thing on your mind. To an outside observer, you’re looking straight ahead. Not too intently mind you. If you stare you stick out. Easy-going focus, that’s the look you’re going for. If the person you’re watching glances your way, the only thing they’ll see is someone who is deep in thought about nothing in particular. So it was that I couldn’t help but watch our late night gate crasher as he poked and prodded at the machine; like if he pawed at it just the right way it would magically open for him.

“I bet he’s a hit with the ladies”.

There’s a moment where I think he’s heard me, a slight hesitation in his movements. Before I can decide whether or not I care though, he’s crouched down on the floor prying at cover of the pump with his keys.

“Hsst! You’ve got to see this.” I whisper.

My wife looks up from her reading just in time to see a long shiny trail of drool bridge the gap between the man’s chin and the tiled floor. The cover falls out of its housing with a clang, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead he moves to all fours and starts sniffing at the pump. After a couple of experimental twists water begins to flow freely. Now he’s lapping the water off the floor like a dog. I’m reminded of a documentary I saw years ago about truffle hunting pigs. Once the pigs found their prize, they buried their faces in the dirt with grunts and squeals of ecstasy. With his face pressed against the pump of the washing machine, I can’t see the look in his eyes anymore. Then again, I don’t really need to. The slurping is more than enough.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

At the sound of my wife’s voice he stops. For a moment so does everything else. Then his face rises and I realize it’s not water at all that he’s been drinking.
He’s walking toward us now.
There’s blood smeared from his nose to breastbone.

“It’s stopped and I don’t know why. Any ideas?”