spynotes ::
  January 19, 2007
Just like the queen of the trailer park

Yesterday, after I came home with the new printer to replace the two that had held hands and jumped of the bridge, I went to switch the loads of laundry and discovered a heap of sodden, soapy clothes in the bottom of the washing machine. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

After some fiddling with the large machine, it was back to perusing the virtual pages of Consumer Reports in search of information. To repair or to replace: That is the question.

Okay, enough with the defiling of Hamlet.

I learned a lot about washing machines, both in general and about my own in particular. First, I discovered that you can get a new washer for under $300. But the good ones can�t be had for less than $900, and possibly a good deal more. I learned that the fancy expensive ones look like sculpture and if I had one in my laundry room, I might sit and admire it all day long. I also learned that I need to clean my fabric softener dispenser. I hadn�t known it was removable. It is. And you know what happens when you don�t take it off to clean it for five years? You�ll wind up with a pile of rancid rust-colored sludge about two inches deep. At least now I know where the spots on my clothes were coming from. And also I may never use fabric softener again.

In the end, I called a repairman. He said it was more than likely a $22 part � which will, of course, cost me at least $100, because that is how much they charge for anything. But they are coming tomorrow. Meanwhile, I�m wondering if I need to set up some formal grief counseling for the rest of the appliances, lest any more of them decide to take a plunge into the abyss.

I was still faced with the problem of yesterday�s load, however. AJ picked some quarters out of his father�s jar of change and I wrestled the heavy, wet laundry into garbage bags, grabbed the Uno cards, and we headed to the Laundromat.

I have worked very hard to not ever have to set foot in a Laundromat again. The year after college, I lived in an apartment in Somerville, Massachusetts that had no laundry. I used to do laundry on Friday nights at a Laundromat near Tufts because it was always deserted. It was pretty much always me and a couple of students conversing in Chinese. After I moved to Chicago, most of my apartments had laundry in the basement. The basements were dark and filthy and tracking down enough quarters was annoying, but the arrangement was reasonably convenient � when the machines worked and when your neighbors remember to change their loads. It wasn�t until I moved into my Ukrainian Village apartment that I had to face the Laundromat once more.

I loved that apartment. It was the second floor of a three-story coachhouse. It had no view to speak of. The bedroom window was on a dark air shaft. Most of the windows looked out on an alley behind the storefronts on Western Avenue. The kitchen windows opened onto a porch which overlooked the alley behind St. Helen�s School. It was a quirky place. There was no buzzer, for one. I had to look out the window to see who was ringing and then I had to walk down and let them in. The front door of the building opened into an unheated stairwell with exposed brick walls and high ceilings. At the fairly spacious landing (I had a table out there), you turned left into my front door, which opened into my living room, big enough for a couch and two bookshelves. To the right was my bedroom, just barely wide enough to wedge my queen-sized futon on a low wooden platform between the door to the living room and the closet door. But the back half of the house was my favorite. There was a pantry lined with shelves up to the 12-foot high ceiling. There was a mammoth � by city standards and in comparison to the tiny living and bedrooms � kitchen, which felt even bigger for its lack of cabinetry. Even with a butcherblock cart and a kitchen table and my bike trainer in one corner, there was plenty of room for a crowd to stand around at a party. There was a door off the kitchen leading to a glassed in porch where I had an extra table and some of my less important belongings in boxes covered in fabric, masquerading as tables. I grew herbs and tomatoes in window boxes in the summer. I�d sit outside and read and watch the traffic go by on the sliver of Western that I could see from the folding chair. My favorite room was my office. It was bigger than my bedroom, but had no closet. I hung wall-to-wall shelves on one wall and covered it in books. I put my favorite red chair, the one I�m sitting in right now, in front of the window. My desk and keyboard and music stand fit neatly into the other half of the room.

I was so enchanted with my new apartment that I didn�t realize until I moved in that there was no laundry in the building. It hadn�t even occurred to me to ask. I took it for granted that all Chicago apartments had laundry. I started to frequent the Laundromat up the block. It was some horrifying inner circle of hell, always crowded, always with screaming babies, always with people trying to steal your stuff. And it was so enormous, that it was often hard to keep an eye on your things. I began doing all my laundry in my bathtub and hanging it on the porch to dry. I briefly considered inventing a line of disposable clothing. And then I discovered drop-off laundry. And after that, there was no turning back.

I moved out of that apartment when Mr. Spy and I moved in together after I bought my first place, our loft downtown. One of the things that helped me decide to take it was an empty closet. �There�s a hookup for a washer and dryer,� pointed out the sales agent. It was the first new thing we bought for the apartment.

We moved in here and found a washer and dryer in the basement, practically new, or so it appeared. They have served us well these last five years. Once we moved here, I figured my Laundromat days were really and truly over. I thought wrong.

Although I was dreading the trip to the Laundromat, AJ was excited. Laundromats are among that class of city things like taxis and subways that he hears about and reads about in books but doesn�t quite believe in. We hauled our laundry into the Laundromat. It was empty, save for the proprieter, a young Mexican woman, who came over to say hello and then returned to folding laundry in front of the television as her toddler played at her feet. I stared at the rows of front-loaders trying to remember what I had to do first. AJ and I read the directions together and I let him put the quarters in.

AJ was having the time of his life. He loved everything about the Laundromat. There were buttons to push, machines that sold all sorts of unexpected things (animal crackers! laundry bags! lint brushes!). Best of all, there was a window in the washing machine so you could watch your clothes go around and around. A timer on the washer counted down the minutes. AJ looked at the clock and figured out what time our laundry would be done. We decided we had time for cards. Standing in front of the folding table, which came up to AJ�s armpits, we dealt out hand after hand of Uno. Our games were slow, as AJ would regularly become mesmerized by the churning laundry, occasionally calling out which garments he could see, as if he were giving a play-by-play sportscast. An old woman walked in and pointed out a penny on the floor to AJ. �Find a penny and pick it up and all the day you�ll have good luck!� AJ looked puzzled. �She�s showing you where to find a penny, AJ,� I said. �Why don�t you go get it and thank her.� He ran to pick up the penny and examined it closely. �1982.�

�You can have it for your piggy bank. Do you have a piggy bank?� the woman asked.

�No,� said AJ. �I have a bank, but it isn�t a pig. It�s just a bank.�

�Well, you can put it in there.�

�Okay.�

The woman headed for the back of the Laundromat to talk to the woman folding laundry. We returned to our Uno game. A few minutes later, the woman came back and handed AJ a handful of change. �Here are a few more pennies for your bank.� AJ was struck dumb, so I thanked her on his behalf. He counted out 14 pennies and zipped them carefully into the pocket of his jacket. �I�m going to put them in my bank when I get home.�

�Good idea.�

When the washing machine got to three minutes, it started counting down in seconds. We put away the cards so we could watch. We pretended we were watching a rocket launch into space. We said the final countdown out loud: �10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1�� and the buzzer went off. Hurrah! Our clothes were clean! We loaded them back in our basket and took them home to the dryer.

When we got home, AJ�s father asked him how is first trip to the Laundromat had been.

�It was really fun!� he said, crunching on a leftover vending machine animal cracker. �I want to go back every week.�

Ain�t gonna happen, AJ. Ain�t gonna happen.

[Second entry today. Click back to get some religion.]

2 people said it like they meant it

 
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