Dirty Laundry

Since our washer grew decrepit and died, my housemates and I have had to frequent the laundromat. It's an odd place, to say the least. It's a reminder that some people have no qualms about fighting in public. When I went to the laundromat a few weeks ago, during the wash cycle there was an unrestrained verbal argument between a couple, then during the dry cycle, a parent and teenager had an argument so heated that it ended in a dramatic shoving match. I'm not sure whether it counts as domestic abuse when it occurs outside of the home, but I'd say the repercussions should be at least as serious for incidents happening in a laundromat.

As these disputes unfolded, I made eye contact with a quiet laundry-er adjacent to me to indicate "What the hell?" The fellow patron took that as a sign to start a whole conversation. Ey never once asked me about myself, instead ranting on eir own life. "You think your life is hard? I work seven days a week, I never get a day off. That's just what I have to do to make ends meet." It went on and on, like some supposedly poignant monologue in an off-Broadway play on the plight of the working class. Meanwhile, I wondered what I had done to make eir think I needed such a speech. Still, later when I had a lot of work to complete, I thought twice about moaning in my head since apparently I don't have it that bad. I also thought twice about how freaking weird that person was.

It's taken me a long time to return to the laundromat. Though my clothes have gotten dirty, I've ignored that fact to prevent the awkward company. It finally reached the point where I needed to do a wash. I loaded my clothing into a large suitcase (my twist on a laundry basket), catching my head on a large spider web decoration adorning my living room for Halloween.

I brought something to read since I was not looking to have any conversations this time. I spy someone rolling a joint, then smoking it in the laundromat. Apparently, laundromats are now like international waters, you can get away with anything in them. I made it my goal to stay as far away from this person as possible, sitting in the opposite corner. Wouldn't you know it, however, the toker approached me to ask me about fossil fuels. I continued reading as I was asked a few batty questions. Though I gave em nothing to work with, ey still got worked up enough to rant about how we'll probably die in a few years with the conclusion of the Mayan calendar. The toker then conceded that there was some hope, because there's another secret calendar that only "old people" can see that takes us until 2050. Part of me wanted to ask whether old people meant senior citizens or an older civilization like the Mayans, but I wanted to give no impression that I cared.

I sat there pondering why in a room full of people seemingly more deranged me that this crazy would choose to converse with me. As I contemplated the potential reasons, I happened to scratch my head. Drawing my hand forward, I saw that a stringy piece of cotton has snagged in my fingernail. What? I wondered. I rubbed my head further and discover that there was a ton of fake cobweb material matted into my hair, evidently resting there without my knowledge for my entire stay at the laundromat.

No wonder I attract crazies at the laundromat. I am a crazy at the laundromat.