7:00 am
Saturday morning, the washing machines in my building’s basement, stand
shoulder to shoulder, like weary looking soldiers with no weekend rest. Their
one red eye flashing in anticipation, the word ‘start’ on their buttons pushed,
and pushed to erosion. Their perfect circle mouths open, expectant. Like
panting tongues, their soap dispensers drawn out, by careless users from the
previous night.
The sickly
yellow quiver and relentless buzz of the fluorescent lights above. Stiff bodies
of dead flies, and dried up moths in dark corners of the room, where the cleaning
lady trusts no resident will look.
The heads of
family size Tide bottles, watch me, from the overflowing garbage can. Discarded
laundry sheets, litter the floor, like dead seagulls.
Glazed eyed
residents shove their week’s worth of weariness, disappointments, and grimy
laundry, into the overworked machines, the rotten door seals, let out a foul
smelling genie.
They’re only
a few feet apart, but there’s an invisible wall dividing the worn-out washing
machines and the elite dryers. Like the invisible wall dividing a nice
neighborhood, from a rough one. The hard working, abused washing machines,
shudder, and whine exhaustingly, on and on, as they plunge red, blue, and
yellow garments one way, then achingly start on the other, until they reach a
noisy disturbing climax, before they come to a halt. The larger less abused dryers
cost more, and made redundant by the summer heat.
An elderly
woman reads her book on the immovable plastic seats that were once white,
where an abandoned sock is
always left for its owner to find, but never retrieved, the cover of her novel,
illegible with veins.
Next to the
card machine, that swallows money notes, and spits out topped up slick white cards,
is a solemn vending machines stacked with bags of Cheetos, Doritos, and cream-filled
cookies, a breakfast canteen, for the nurses and the baristas, hurrying to
their 5:00 am jobs. The row of Snickers, always empty
Desperate
notes pinned on the bulletin board; “pay less for insurance”, “baby sitter $5
an hour, “cupcakes delivered to your door”. And an poetic note “The balls fondling
anal queef who stole my laundry basket, I hope you get butt raped by a pack of
Koalas – Finn”
A fire took
it all last month, we weren’t told how, but I believe one of the enslaved
washing machines finally gave in and blew up in fiery rage. I did my laundry at
Fairview Laundromat for a whole month, where the shiny chrome framed faces of
new machines sparkled with youth and appreciation.
To listen to an audio of this, click this link:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gmCsdRwHfeY&t=77s
