ALL RESPONSES |
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It isn’t what you think. It never is.
The woman in the pale blue sweats
cradles a warm nightgown in her hands;
thinks maybe, just maybe
I will take down the silver-framed
painting of Cupid over my bed.
As he waits for his socks to dry,
the man in the black-slitted jacket
looks out the window, wonders
who will drink the single glass
of wine left on the table tonight.
Each came from a home
with red shutters. Each stood
in ice-blue light. As children,
they asked themselves if
their father loved their mother.
It isn’t what you think. It never is. |
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Tom thought of Mary often. The strand of hair that fell across her face, the tiny wart on her left thumb, her nervous giggle. He could hear his load of wash tumbling inside the laundromat. He took a long drag from his cigarette and gazed across the river. Mary. He missed her already. There were so many nights like this, when they would do wash together, laughing about the past, dreaming about the future. He blew a stream of smoke into the dark, dry air. The wash cycle switched to rinse. Pretty soon, he'd have to put the load in the dryer.
A man and woman breezed out of the Circle Inn across the street, both with a mild buzz circling around their heads. They looked happy as they walked to the car, arms around each others' waists. Happy. Tom wasn't happy, but he wasn't sad, either. All he could feel was the lift of nicotine and the occasional gnat on his skin. The cigarette had burned low; he threw it down, crushed it beneath his shoe and walked back into the laundromat.
He sorted through the wash as he tossed it into the dryer. Two weeks of socks, underwear and T-shirts, plus the clothes Mary had worn. He inspected them closely, inside and out. No, this wouldn’t do. There were still bloodstains on her panties, and her blouse was ripped where she had fallen. As much as he disliked having to part with them, Tom knew what he would have to do. Burn them in the fire pit. Scatter the ashes in the swift-moving river, high with the spring rains. He would smoke a cigarette and think about Mary. |
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It’s a good place to meet
People
Say all of the people I meet
Elsewhere
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Here’s what I know
about laundromats:
put your quarters
in the slots of a
running machine
and it means
you’re next
clothes for one take
less time than two
washers are large
enough for comforters
but offer no comfort
small boxes of detergent
are sold there
at elevated prices
in case you forget yours
or don’t need much
in England laundromats
are called launderettes
and laundresses
do your laundry for you
and present it folded
in pretty, plastic bags
in Duluth laundromats
are attached to bars
get drunk and dry
the change machines
won’t change your life.
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This dog eat dog world has a few canine cannibals
They thirst and thrive and thin the packs
Choosing the ones who least resemble them
They stand and stare and study your tracks
Feeling protected in public is the first foolish sign
They hone and hunt and hide from your sight
Only one more load until safely at home again
They watch and want and wait to your right
Heed this warning on a searing summer’s eve
They need and know and never leave whole
The next time you walk into your local laundromat
They crawl and claw and claim your soul |
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Store front windows, large plate glass,
blinding at certain times in the morning.
Inside, things washed. On each washer’s
lid, a set of global precautions:
No washer can completely remove oil.
Aucune laveuse ne peut complètement enlever l’huile.
The gloved hand dipped in oil, comes out dripping.
The boat, ringed as a scummy tub.
The bird sitting in an oil nest looks as if
it poured melted chocolate all last night.
The phrase, she died of exhaustion,
comes to mind. Aucune laveuse
ne peut enlever l’huile. Everyone trying to
say, it’ll come out. Much wringing
of hands, much smart helplessness.
All of my own home town, I imagine,
and east one hundred miles to Aberdeen,
under a foot and a half of oil. And now,
Ladies, hang out the wash. We are not big
about suffering, we aren’t equal, not
equally engaged in sticky oil. Those without
washers gather in the laundromat. Come,
the manager calls, wash all your stains away. |
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The bicyclist is
gone. Jen’s doing okay, except that... Time is up.
Basswoods boom, street curbs yellow, cardinals abound.
Traffic lights are e v e r y w h e r e. |
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What does a scar feel like?, she asked.
(having never tripped, she didn't know.)
It feels like when you touch a strangers lips with your fingertips, I answered.
What does a broken bone feel like?, she asked.
(having climbed no trees, she didn't know.)
It feels like a perfect apple bruised at the center, I answered.
What does it feel like when you whistle?, she asked.
(having never been a child, she didn't know.)
It feels like watching a plane pass above the clouds, the sound coming after, I answered.
What does it feel like, not knowing?, I asked.
It feels like nothing, she thought to herself. |
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The arch of my left foot was pressed up on the rim of a trashcan when the person from porlock let himself in. He was wearing a grey linen suit, a lawyer suit, and a lawyer’s face. But his hair and he teeth were the color of urine. He grimaced
“It smells like toenails.”
“Freshly Cut.”
“I can always smell toenails.”
“Only when they’re cut.”
“It’s not the toenails then.
“It’s the spaces.”
“The spaces underneath the toenails, where the dirt was living.”
The television had a prominent place in my studio apartment, resting on an egg white bureau flanked by two identical cherubs with the face of George Orwell. I did not know the apartments former owner, and I probably would not have liked him, but I would have liked to meet him.
“Well let’s get down to business,” I said.
“Not yet.”
Channel 49 was playing a feature film, maybe 10 years old, about German leftist militants. At that moment the screen was slowly zooming in on Petra, or Helga. Someone blond and fiery and knew that everyone knew that she was a great fuck. And I’d never get her, even if she weren’t fictional.
“I’d like to eh, get in the bathtub with her first,” he said, and smiled winningly.
“Let’s go for a walk.”
We went outside and walked across the street to a bad delicatessen where an Indochinese of some sort sold fatty corned beef and undercured pastrami. It wasn’t a bad deli because the proprietor wasn’t Jewish. All good Jewish Deli’s are owned by Greeks and staffed by Mexicans. I ordered a Coffee.
“I want that alien to lay eggs on my face.”
The Chinaman was not amused, and, neither was I. I was beginning to sober up and I felt a twinge of pain somewhere in the cerebellum. Dr. Teeth would have to go.
“I’m leaving,” I said.
“Have your coffee it will help.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of a comma?”
“Listen, I brought you here because I wanted to get down to business.”
“That sounds backwards.”
“Then look at it sideways.”
The Man in the Black Pajamas came back with my coffee. Silent as ever.
“Have your coffee, it will help”
“Why did you disturb my slumber”
“You weren’t sleeping you were cutting your toenails.”
“The smell.”
“Like something died yet—“
“Purifying.”
“My wife thinks so.”
“Your wife?”
“She loves cutting her toenails.”
“No, I mean, you’re married?”
“Look at this suit.”
“Since when”
“Since she needed citizenship.”
“Mail-Order?”
“Sure”
“I bet Soviet.”
“If I send back the rebate I get a free Lomo Camera.”
And then, something wonderful happened. Porlock grimaced and grinned and every muscle in his face retreated backwards like Horseback Poles fleeing from German Iron and he sneezed. The Cold War ended that day.
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hennepin avenue
between franklin and twenty first
watching my whites tumble in the dryer
my thoughts tumbling as well
contemplating a decision i’m about to make
no matter what i choose
someone will be hurt
no matter which path i take
it will change
the course of my life forever
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I do laundry once a month.
This inevitably leads to three large tubs
that make for double loads.
five mismatched pairs of socks.
four t-shirts piss smell drenched with sweat.
everything else is clean, but
I wash it anyway. To make sure
things wear evenly. |
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the tall cottonwood is collapsed at last
no one to mourn its lapse in the parking lot
where two cars lie smashed
a rabbit huddles under its limbs
tastes nothing of the bitterness
of tires stilled
the joint of red to white
teeth stating ‘stop’ in the light
from another great rolling beast
the scent of crushed branches
the rabbit bolts around the rooted structure
and then through all manmade banter |
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soiled laundry of the North Mankato, we await you
top-loading lids at attention
agitators poised
spin cycles strong and tireless
engage our centrifugal expulsion of grime and stains
and refresh your tired threads
please park in rear |
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Laundromat
Jackie at the counter when he's not making change
watches girls as they sort, and when they're distracted
by sunsets or American idol, why -
he yoinks things right from the baskets.
There's a pile back home and on his days off
he rolls on it, buries himself, is lost for hours.
It's not a sex thing, it's a comfort thing -
his therapist, court-appointed, approves.
The 'mat is full of regulars, he knows them every one.
Linda likes the sound of quarters dropping,
a thunking echo like buckles fastening her safely
to the spinning world. David is defending his
thesis next morning and needs a clean shirt -
but there's this French Philosopher wagging a finger
at the foundations of his paper so here he sits,
his mind awash and tumbling and coming clean.
And that's poor fat Debbie paging through People,
dreaming of the fudgesicle that's a reward
for getting the laundry done and the leftover pizza
that's a reward for waiting for the
laundry to be done before eating the fudgsicle...
Jackie laughs and watches and makes change and
it's all good clean fun, these little miseries and him,
lord and master of the quarter-machine.
Later, Jackie's therapist would be de-certified,
brought up on charges, and Jackie would be sent
back through the tumbler himself.
David would defend the thesis but wash up in Boise;
Debbie went vegan, runs half marathons now, and
after the news crews started leaving Jackie alone
and the new meds kicked in, he feels even better
than ever, though he misses the laundry pile,
and the 'mat, the soothing rows of tumbling towels,
sunset tinting them pink and lovely,
the good old days, gone forever,
and Linda the last of them now. |
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It’s late and the laundromat
smells of rain and Clorox
Two children who are all face
press against humid window glass
An older Latino woman sits alone
counting quarters, her lips move
in silent incantation
One of the heavy duty loaders groans
from extra weight, its dirty soap smears
against the portal
There is wisdom on the bathroom walls
and the nubile playing the red Ms Pacman
game wears a t-shirt so thin I can see
her small heart beat |
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Mary sits in the laundromat, thinking of Tom. She folds underwear, t-shirts and socks religiously. The smell of phosphate and bleach is good. Her thoughts of Tom are mostly good. Things always start out good with people. So, the end was a bit nasty. Ugly, like an oil-covered egret. Like Grendel's mother.
Mary thinks about Tom and everything that had happened, and how it had come to a close. She thinks of herself as a rational person, not prone to violence or the spreading of gossip. Well-raised, except for a little abuse. A person learns things after a while. Like when to run. Mary looks out the window at the cars moving by in the receding sunlight.
She folds panties into little triangles. The only reason to do this is so that she can find the ones she is looking for, which really doesn't matter anymore. And the socks, in tight little balls, and the jeans, stacked like books. It's a way of making everything fit into a small space, easy to locate, clean and ready for the day. Perfect.
A woman walks into the laundromat, the door slamming behind her. Mary knows her.
"Hey, Jenny, did you just get here?"
"Nope, Anna, I'm just waiting for the wash."
"It's good to see you again!"
"It's good to see you, too!"
Mary chats with Anna while the wash tumbles and spins. She's comfortable with her new name and her new life. She still thinks of Tom, though.
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Setting sun. Sound of beer bottles
dropped hard in a dumpster
across the way. A single car
with a muffler dragging, sparking
its way. The ragged street,
the splitting tar, dead cigarettes.
The rhythm of the world is here,
dryers whooshing in a circular
motion, as the heart pumps its blood
up and out into the body, machines
vibrating big like new love, like
the tenderness between a beaten
boy and the newborn baby.
Try your luck. Slip in your quarters
and win a wash, a spin, a spitting
out of the stains of the world
and clean pajamas, the dream
of pretty things far and unfamiliar. |
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Come clean
twenty-four seven
park ten minutes
leave motor running
activate inside motor
leave
return
turn on the heat
return
always return
process is over
but never ended
fold neatly
by color or use
(either works)
home at last
each in its place
clean
stacked
folded neatly
ready when needed
no wrinkles |
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I feel like a child,
doing my laundry,
while watching traffic,
slowly pass by.
I feel like a child,
a pocketful of quarters,
weighing down my shorts,
causing them to sag.
I feel like a child,
tripping through the door,
falling off its hinges,
twenty-four-seven
I feel like a child,
I separate my colors,
from ones that lack any,
until I mess up.
I feel like a child,
easily amused by,
mechanized symphonies,
whirling in unison.
I feel like a child,
sniffing each article,
for any free radicals,
I can detect.
I feel like a child,
matching each corner,
paring my stockings,
creasing the pleats.
I feel like a child,
doing my laundry… |
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Not before I notice
the peppery dusk
do I realize the day
has gone on so long
a one-sided conversation
of blue sky and sun.
Having parted open air
with small tasks
scrubbing walls
clawing weeds socks
on delicate cycle un-
pairing like chromosomes
I search the warm drum
of summer evening
for the first star. |
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laundromat, revised
come clean
twenty-four seven
park out front
leave motor running
agitate
rinse
tumble dry
fold
hurry home
each to its place
clean
stacked
ready when needed
no wrinkles
dream at night
of washing words
that won’t
come clean. |
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1.
He said, Meet me at the laundromat, 7 pm sharp
and I said, ok, but why can’t we just meet
in the park? He frowned at me
like I was not so bright or something.
I have to do lauuuundry, he stressed the word
like it was a drum beat on my head.
Oh well, of course. I have no problem
with that. But then again, does that mean
he is asking me out, like on a date?
2.
He didn’t show up but I managed to
spill coke on my white shirt anyway while
waiting. Good thing I could rub water
and soap on it right-away, the man
in the pink shirt was so kind and friendly
and didn’t even ask what I was doing
in the Laundromat without any clothes
to put in the machine.
3.
He could’ve called and said he had
changed his mind. He could have.
He could have not asked me at all.
I could have minded my own business
instead of offering to help when I saw
he had a flat on his bike, I could have
shut up and gone home without
making any future plans to break.
4.
The man in the pink shirt says not to
fret, there’ll be someone else,
someone who appreciates you, he tells
me, as if he knew anything at all about me
as if he couldn’t see the tic in my eyes,
the scrunchy way my sister complains
I look at her.
5.
But never mind, I really didn’t expect
anything. He thanked me for
the directions and the coins and I should
have left without a backward glance, just good girl
brownie points for me,
just knowing one day that boy
might run his bike right
into me again. Hey! he’d say,
you’re that girl who helped me.
And I would nod and smile,
just smile and keep on walking.
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We chain-smoked – out back –
in the mist of detergent fumes –
in our too-short shorts just
outside the employee only entrance.
You knew the owner, well.
His eyes lit up at your arrival.
You knew everyone. No explanation of
how or when – they trembled with fervor
near your bronzed young skin.
We were so delicate then: sixteen.
Pushing each other around in the
rusted laundry carts- drinking cheap beers
swearing in front of the old ladies.
We laughed until our stomachs hurt-
threw our laundry into big
black garbage bags,
and went home to our worried parents.
June 21, 2010
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Everything good happened to him.
I’m not saying he didn’t have talent.
He did.
You can’t take that away from him.
He’s not the kind of guy you can picture
going through those channels, the ones
it takes to win a grant, or get his
book published, or his script read by
big name studio people. No,
those acts seem...
structured, and he’s
so nonchalant
in a way that that lets you believe
that everything that happens for him
is lucky and accidental,
reinforcing the idea that
he is a good man
and that good things
just come to him
whether or not he is
and whether or not that’s
how it happened.
He owns his house and
a cabin and
a farm somewhere.
But not a washer
or a dryer.
“Every neighborhood needs
a Laundromat”
he tells me,
“Speaks to the nature of
the people there:
Young or transient, or
settled in and
stubborn, unable
to fix something
broken.
I get my best material there”
he says.
But I know it’s the maid
who does the wash.
The Maid
She takes his soiled
things home to her apartment
because the machines are
cheaper there. She puts
the extra quarters into
her little girl’s piggy bank,
whispering to her baby how
she’s going to go to college and
grateful for these extra
two and one half hours
she can spend with her. |
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