Waiting for a service call on our broken washing machine, I have become very accustomed to our neighborhood laundromat. I know which row of machines that I favor (the ones where the washers are located closest to the dryers), how much money to bring (more than you would imagine), and what time to start my twice-per-week visit (as early in the morning as possible).
Planning out my Wednesday morning, I had a winning strategy. Wake up early, drive to the laundromat, start the wash, drive home, fix some breakfast for the family, return to the laundromat, start the drying cycle, return home, send the kids off to school, return to the laundromat, put the dried clothing in the trunk of my car, and drive to work. “Really, David? Is that really your plan? Is that the best you could come up with?” Yep, it does not look very sane, but it works, trust me.
At least, I thought it worked. I was pretty sure of it. The only flaw? Others. My fellow man. Rules of conduct in a civilized society. You see, I put the clothes into the drier, returned home, got the kids off to school, returned to the laundromat to collect my clothing and… wait… my laundry baskets… gone! My precious (probably valued at less than $2 each and having lived very long lives, I suspect, for unassuming laundry baskets) baskets were gone! I quickly wandered around the entire building (not that large) engaged in my desperate search. Nothing. They were gone! As I warily glanced at the fellow sitting lonely in the corner (he could not have taken them, he was still there), I began to suspect the younger fellow that was there earlier, the one who was playing a game that was somewhat too loud on his phone. How could random game boy have done this to me? I was hurt. Hurt by a fellow laundromat customer. Hurt by someone who should have known the rules of laundromat etiquette better. I was hurt by a laundromat compatriot.
Gathering my family’s load of whites into my arms, I stomped out of the facility. Mad at life. Mad at myself for trusting others. Mad at society in general. Mad at (but somewhat forgiving of) the random fellow still sitting lonely in the corner.
Driving to work. Laundry safely sitting in my trunk. Clarity beginning to rush back with each passing mile, I got to thinking, “Maybe I had carried the baskets back home, when I placed the laundry into the driers.” Dear God, that’s what had happened! Society had not let me down, the young man on his phone was not crooked, instead I was to blame! I had become the outlier. The nasty seed of society. The undeserving. The scorned. I had become a bitter, angry man, who was carrying unfolded towels around in search of a stack of cheap plastic laundry baskets that I had apparently hidden from myself.
I felt better about society. I felt worse about myself. I needed something. Something to feel better. I needed my washing machine fixed. “Where have you gone, Maytag Repairman? Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you. Wu wu wu.”
