Wash, dry, fold, connect: How I found my center at the laundromat
I was in a new state at a new school and needed something solid to stand on: a place to feel grounded.
I also needed to do laundry, so I walked to a nearby laundromat and stuffed a machine with my clothes.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onFinding and joining new communities is a part of growing up. And sometimes this sense of belonging is found in an unexpected place.
The washer did its job. The dryer did not.
“Come back again,” the female attendant called.
Her name was Sandy, I learned later, after I’d helped her stop a washer that had broken loose and was lurching across the floor.
Next time, Sandy told me dryer No. 8 was the best.
It went on like this. I’d do laundry once a week, and Sandy and I would talk while I folded.
I began to recognize others there: workers taking breaks by the door, a mother and her infant, the vending machine man who’d throw me a bag of Cheetos.
But Sandy was the center. For nearly three years, we’d talk. If one of us missed a week, there was a note of concern for the other’s absence, a note of joy at their return.
I’d found my solid place to stand.
I didn’t want to do anything but laundry. It’d been about 10 days, and I’d worn the same pair of socks for five.
The first few weeks of grad school had been a whirlwind of classes and teaching in a constant state of never knowing where I was. The large state university I attended was as big as a small city, and it would be months before I figured out where the student health center was.
I was in a new state, at a new school, studying something I’d never formally studied before. I felt I was treading water, looking for something solid to stand on: a place or group of people where I could feel grounded outside the classrooms where I’d inevitably spend most of my time.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onFinding and joining new communities is a part of growing up. And sometimes this sense of belonging is found in an unexpected place.
The 17th Street Coin Laundry was four blocks from my apartment, and I had 10 bucks in quarters ready. I walked through the automatic doors and stuffed the first available machine with my clothes.
As I struggled to close the washer door, the woman working behind the counter told me to give it a good smack with the heel of my hand.
The washer did its job, yet even after an hour, the dryer I’d chosen seemed to have barely warmed my clothes. I left, having decided to air-dry them on my car in the August heat.
At least my socks would smell fresh.
“Come back again,” the female attendant called.
A month later, I learned her name was Sandy, which she told me after I’d helped her stop a washing machine from lurching across the floor. I was grading poems at a linoleum-topped table when one of the industrial washers broke loose from its brackets and skipped an inch into the air with every revolution. I sprinted to the machine and held on while she unplugged it.
“Like a bucking bull,” I said.
“Might weigh more,” she replied, smiling.
That next week, Sandy told me dryer No. 8 was the fastest.
It went on like this. I’d do laundry once a week, usually Thursday or Friday. Sandy worked Tuesday through Saturday and we’d talk small while I folded clothes. She told me about her son and his grades, the new puppy they’d just adopted. She was fascinated that I was studying poetry. She teased that it was harder making a living as a poet than as a laundromat attendant. Even then I knew she was probably right.
Over the course of my time in grad school, I formed a community within my department and on the basketball courts of the university, but the community I felt at the laundromat was the first I’d built as an adult without the scaffolding of school or sports. It was refreshing to spend an afternoon in a place where no one was asking about poetry submissions and no one cared if I missed every shot in a pickup game. The laundromat was where I was Noah, the young man who did laundry on Thursday or Friday.
But even in the quotidian cycles of laundry, there were moments of drama.
On two occasions, dryers caught fire – thankfully not No. 8. Sandy had to use the fire extinguisher, but the only casualty was a pair of underwear.
A car caught fire, too. It was in the parking lot, and the driver was sleeping at the table next to me. We had to yell “Fire!” twice before he woke up. The owner of the liquor store next door got to the scene before Sandy.
Sandy asked me why I was always there when things burst into flames. I tried to imagine the dull life I’d be living if I had a washer and dryer in my apartment.
I came to recognize others in the laundromat: the workers who took cigarette breaks by the door, the smoke wafting back into the lavender
detergent-scented air; the mother whose baby slept or wailed in its carrier while she did laundry; the vending machine man who threw me a bag of Cheetos as he replenished the empty metal spirals.
But Sandy was the pillar of my laundromat community. For nearly three years and almost every week, I’d do laundry and talk with her. We checked on each other, expected the other to be there. We asked where the other had gone when we missed a week. There was a note of concern for the other’s absence, a note of joy at their return.
I’d found a place to stand on solid ground.
