The Laundromat Jim Bolone

THE LAUNDROMAT

Jim Bolone

We used to summer in the Upper Peninsula. Manistique. The only laundromat was just north of town, and its where we’d do our laundry. There are no parking spots at the laundromat today, so I park across the street, outside the Food Mart. As soon as I climb out of my car, a woman approaches me. She can’t be more than thirty. Her hair is matted, her arms are marked with sores. She says she has three kids and no job. I hand her three bucks. She takes the money and walks away. Laundry detergent, fabric softener, and bleach give life to the humidity inside. A hand-written sign on the wall reads “This facility monitored by camera.” The dollar-bill-changer looks old, but works; I realize my last three bucks are gone. “ATM’s down the street,” an old man says.

Later, I wait and listen while washers hum and dryers click and clack. And I dwell on the time Linnie made coffee and didn’t turn around.

“Making coffee?” I said. Jazz played on her phone speaker. She stopped. “Yep.” It’s the way she said it, too fast. The music was discordant. She poured water into the machine. My face warmed at the sight of her long lash. “What’s wrong?” I asked. Her nostrils flared wide; she breathed in long, held it, then exhaled, slow. “You have to go. Today.”

The laundromat up here keeps it close. My clothes are warm from the dryer as they settle in my duffel. When I push open the door to exit, the rules sign hanging on the wall reflects backward in the glass, and I wonder if I will return.