Dear Adam Powers:
So, about two years ago I started hanging out at the Super Suds in Carrboro Plaza, and it rocks. Sort of. There is this place back home in New Orleans called Igor’s where you can wash your clothes, have a beer and a burger, then play pool and arcade games and hear live music while you waited for your laundry to dry. It is the holy grail of domestic multitasking, and I loved it. At Super Suds you can apparently do all these things sans the burger, but there’s an Arby’s next door so whatever.
So I get there, and I’m thinking it better be worth it cause I have a washer/dryer at home so I really don’t need to be paying to do this shit, but why not go? It’s a sad little laundromat, but clean. I’m not really seeing a bar or any recreational devices. Did I come to the wrong place? There are ads on a bulletin board for “beautiful dream home trailers” with no phone numbers torn off, and half the machines are broken. Actually, one of the machines had a little sign on it that said:
“do not use cold broken. hot warm broken do not.”
Sooooo. . . . .what? The hot is broken, the cold is broken, the warm is broken? Just put BROKEN, dammit.
I meet Miss Angie, a four foot ten sweet little black lady who wants to give me quarters and beer. I talk to her about Igor’s and she’s fucking ecstatic, like it’s her dreamplace. And then I see it. Beyond Miss Angie, in a back room, is a set of taps, eight arcade games, and two of the most pristine, underused pool tables I have ever seen. Jackpot.
While I was waiting for my clothes to wash, I sat down and eavesdropped on people’s conversations because I can’t help myself. I spent a long time listening to some toofless wonder try to convince Miss Angie to let him have his wedding reception in the Super Suds bar. She said no.
At this point, I had had three beers, and I had to pee, bad. So I go up to the bathroom and it’s locked. A middleaged divorced-looking alcoholic laundrybar prince waves me over and I can’t see his mouth thanks to his 1970s Chips ‘stache, but I hear a garbled, “Yoo need dis key if’n yoo wanna git in dere.” And he hands me a key attached to a metal hanger. I’m dumbfounded. WHAT happened in the girl’s bathroom at the Super Suds to warrant a perpetual lock on the door?
I managed to halt an entire billiards game during my visit to the toilet. This battalion of foreign dudes was apparently from an all-male commune and are only let out of the gates once a month to do laundry and play games, and the thought of a real female girl headed to the bathroom where she’d soon be half naked and urinating was a little too much for them to wrap their heads around. So they stood stock still, watching the bathroom door, until I was finished, and only resumed their pool game once I had returned the key. I was starting to understand the lock a bit more.
Overall, I decided I was in love with the Laundrybar. There is no wireless, however, so I’m not sure how that will work out for me. Next time you are in town, I will have to take you there. I feel like you’d have a lot to say about it, though you are a boy of few words. We all get inspired, though, right?
P.S.: I also found a one-hitter on the clothes folding table. Do you still smoke pot? Let me know.