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December
10, 2005. Today had to be laundry day. There just wasn't any more putting it off. Trouble is, I don't currently have a car. Well, a car that isn't smashed up and sad:
Anyway, without a car I can't really lug too much of anything. I am strong like bull! Peasant stock, or something. My years at the bookstore receiving room serve me well still, but you know, an over-large duffel bag slung over a shoulder, through deep drifts of snow, the bus, salt slush pooling everywhere warmer than freezing ... I was not feeling confident. But, bag up the dirties I did, and I took a deep breath and hefted the duffel over one shoulder, and a second, smaller drawstring in one hand, and I headed out. First stop was the convenience store down the block for cash. Out of receipt paper, the screen showed me a balance that was a little nerve-wracking, but not the worst number imaginable. I also purchased some really over-priced detergent there, and then crossed the street to wait for the bus. It was around 9 AM at this point. On a Saturday. In a working-class neighborhood with its fair share of apartment buildings and 3-flat walk-ups. The laundromat about a mile down would most certainly be crowded by now - really, flanked by a package store/mart and a Dunkin Donuts, at one of the busiest intersections in the city? Yeah. So, I stood at the bus stop, peering down the street for mere seconds before I sighed, hefted my bag, and walked another slip-sliding block to this run-down laundromat I've never been to, in the ... wow, three years I've been living here. The only guy there washing his clothes opened the door for me, and I plunked my stuff down and generated $10 in change from the machine, noticing that it didn't take $20s. The place was small - definitely a neighborhood spot, worn and well-used and having its own tempo. I felt a little like I was intruding, like I was the one kid in the choir singing a bit off from the rest of the group, or perhaps a little too loudly. Signs posted high up on the walls declaimed the glorious attributes of the Wascomat Double Loader. "Whiter washes GUARANTEED!" A rickety shelf on the wall opposite the door had a fading and dusty collection of empty soap and softener bottles, labeled with prices. Occasionally, one of the proprietors would come in from the outside, and jovially exlaim, "Need change? Need detergent? Change? Soap?" We all smiled and shook our heads no. I sat on the window ledge, a slightly cold mosaic-tiled low shelf, and I let my mind wander. I let myself get mesmerized by the washer directly in front of me, into which the woman had put too much soap - the wash cycle was pure white soft foam occasionally interrupted by the flash of a pant leg, or a dark sock. Two of my nicer blouses I wear a lot for work might've been damaged. I am a little afraid to look in the bag to make sure. The one dryer I used for synthetic articles ran way too hot, and did not have any settings except, well, On or Off. Sigh. But, it all got done, and it only took a short walk (with a detour into the grocer's for Cafe Bustelo, avocados, eggs, and weird coffee-flavored candy) to get home. I've been finding myself sort of randomly smiling all day, even though I've not been in the best of moods the past few weeks. It's nice to feel myself overtaken by a bit of unexpected happiness - I've missed it. There is more snow falling outside now - I went out to get ginger ale and popcorn, and my hair was glittered with tons of flakes. There are spots on the streets now marked with chairs and crates and boards. Ah, Chicago. So beautiful. Ramshackle. Covered over in frozen stuff, preserved in salt and chilled.
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