Sorry if it’s been awhile since I blogged from the ol’ neighborhood laundromat. I’ve missed it — the swirling machines, the ’50s-hospital-like atmosphere with the linoleum tiles and enameled walls, along with the random encounters one can have, with strangers either bland as accounting ledgers or completely unhinged in an “I’m starting the one true religion because I saw the God of the Hebrews in what I ate for breakfast” way, all in a public place where people gather to put their schmattes to soap and water.
Yes, I must admit that my clothes was gettin’ stanky, but I had to make a choice between eating and being stanky or starving and not being stanky, so I opted for the stank, and so I brought in a full load of reeking, funky rags. They’re spinning in the wash now, so I’m typing this up. There are two women who came in, bothe white and in their twenties, both a bit zaftig, although not in an unattractive way, both with their hair pulled back, sweatshirts, athletic-style capris and flip-flops. Oh, they just left. “Is our stuff safe?” they ask the attendant. He mutters assent. There’s a middle-aged black woman to my right in goofy fishing hat, striped blouse and white pants, white socks and Crocs. Outside there are two thin, pretty women with a pancake-colored dog; one has a big tattoo of angel wings I can see through the top of her shirt back.
Ah, springtime. My stuff’s almost done washing. Time for the dryer.
Damn. Tattooed Gimli the Dwarf squeezed by me and grabbed dryer No. 23, pushing all his black Ed Hardy and Affliction clothes into it, and then the black woman, who was quite wide (as is Gimli) also shouldered by as I was loading my stuff from the washer into a rolling wire basket, and while it didn’t get tense, I had to wait until they were done. If I was an impatient, entitled asshole, things could have gotten ugly. Fortunately, I didn’t give a shit. So got everything loaded and spinning, and now I sit here and wait for it to dry.
I’ll be a bit late for the Monks documentary around the corner at the Town House, but Roger never starts those until eight, anyway, so no biggs. It’s important to have clean clothes. Clean clothes make me happy. And now I need to get a haircut, and an all-black suit, and a stand-up bass player and a stand-up snare player, followed by an accordionist, a clarinetist and maybe a vibraphone player. I’m ready to shift into my next episode, the suave, urbane singer of darkly romantic songs.
Sure, I may have given up on women, but I still do love to sing. —Jackson Griffith