And In This Corner...
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Laundry day can be a very dangerous day. At CheckPoint Bratwurst you can do your laundry for free. As with most thing run by THE Corp its not the most efficient way of doing things. There are eight über-economy sized washer and four man-sized dryers. One of these dryers can easily hold four of the washer loads and demand more.
Last night I went down to the laundry, one of my many tasks that I am to perform over here. Once a week, I go down, separate the delicates from the insensitive, add a quarter cup of laundry detergent (God bless the soft-water of Germany… why didn’t anyone ever tell me about this) and wait for Stairway to Heaven to play to know the dance is done and move everything to dryer.
The first time I went down to do laundry I ran into Charlie. A retired sailor who proceeded to mentor me in the finer points of these particular machines. “You set the wershers [love the Ohio Valley accent] to this point, any more and bad things could happen. Then on the dryers I suggest setting it to here. I feel if it gets too warm then it removes too much lint from the clothes and ruins them. But if you don’t like lint set to where ever you please.”
Today would be my second day. I felt I was ready to take on the laundry while flying solo. The duffel bag full, detergent in hand, wearing the official laundry day uniform, I was prepped and ready to go. I get down to the basement, there is a woman standing in front of the washers and another one accompanied by her two daughters playing cards. And fuck, all the washers are full. Guess I’ll come back later, this place is open 24 hours.
One of the women notices me leaving and pipes up, “these four are mine and will be done in a couple of minutes. You can have them,” loud enough for the others to hear. I thank her and wait around. The washers go off, she removes her clothes and moves them to the dryer. I proceed to start loading mine in.
When out of the corner of my eye I notice the other woman, Psychotic Soccer Mom (PSM) directing her daughters with orange slices in a Pavlovian fashion, to block me from the empty ones.
I quickly grab one of Turtle’s panties, bunch them into a ball and pitch them into a open washer just as she is about to place a pair of Umbro shorts into the waiting maw. Victory is mine! An evil grin spreads across my face and PSM notices. She reaches into my claimed washer and pulls out Turtle’s underwear.
“I believe that washer is mine.” I challenge.
“I don’t think so.” She grabs the flimsy cloth and tosses it into the washer that is already half full with my clothes.
“Lets go bitch.” I throw down the full bottle of all temperature Cheer onto the cement floor. Detergent sprays forth from the ruptured bottle coating the room in a thin layer or blue slime. Her two daughters begin to circle me. Lions in the midst of an epic gladiator battle.
The smallest daughter goes to kick me in the shins. I wrap her ankle in a pair of 501s, sending her sprawling to the ground. Nudging her cleated foot, she slides across the springtime fresh floor out into the hall. The mother roars, as one of her cubs is removed from battle and lash out with a cup full of Snuggle to my eyes. I feel a swift kick to the back of my legs as the eldest cub attempts to bend my knee like Beckham. I go down to the cement in a heap. PSM bellows as her prey hits the ground. She pounces on me trying to suffocate me with a week-old gym sock. I will not let myself go out like this, but the overwhelming stench is slowly sapping away my consciousness. My arm falls to the ground. I raise it back up, but once again it collapses lifeless to the cement. The laundry room is beginning to close in around me. The last thing I will see is the slick blue concrete floor and the evil snarl of the lioness.
My hand comes up, and begins to descend again when suddenly in mid-fall my arm stops. My fingers splay open and then close. I wag my finger defiantly. Throwing PSM off me with a move I saw in a Jet Li movie, I grab her wrist as she falls back, applying enough pressure to force her to release the sock. With my left hand I snatch the sock out of the air and run it through the detergent pooling on the ground. Springing to my feet I lash out for a nearby hamper. Holding it like a shield and using the now pleasant smelling sock as a whip, I go for the daughter.
I snap the sock. She bares her teeth at me. I have no time for subtlety, I snap the sock again and push back her back with the hamper into an open dryer. Quickly closing the door, the cub looks around her new cage and shrieks a growl that is thunderous even through the door. As I am about to hit the fluff cycle I hear PSM behind me. Without looking I fling the hamper, covering her head with the blue plastic. I can feel exhaustion begin to overtake me. Not much time left, I have to finish this now.
I slide across the floor into her legs causing her to somersault downward. She hits with a mighty thump. I grab her laundry, not mine, mine needs to be washed, and pull out whatever I can; Talbot sweaters, Gap polos, leggings, sari, lederhosen, anything and hog tie her to the best of my ability.
When she is sufficiently incapacitated, I roll her over and let her know that the machine is mine. That this incident is not a blight on her or her kin, its just business and maybe in a different time, we might have been friends. We might have traded recipes for broccoli salad, we might have started an Oprah’s book club, but stealing a man’s “wersher,” that’s reason enough for war. She nods. I let her go and fill my washer with clothes.
Back in the room, I relate the tale to Turtle as she dresses my wounds. 35 minutes later, I head back down to the basement to move my clothes over. PSM is still there. She’s got three dryers full and a sock, the sock, sitting alone in a dryer. She bares her teeth at me and from behind I hear the snarls of her cubs.
“Shall we dance?”
posted by Don Taylor @ 5:24 PM,
