Dear J Waves:
I know we’ve talked about the laundrybar before, here and here, and even though I have since acquired a washing machine and dryer and I have no need for theirs, I still find myself hanging out there once in a while to wash my clothes since it’s such a bastion of crazybat behavior. Here’s a rundown of my latest visit:
I’m sitting at the bar. The familiar hum of washing machines and Mexican families of ten is a din. Jackie The Laundrybar Heir hasn’t torn his eyes away from the TV screen since I sat down. There is a transgendered woman on Maury Povich talking about her/his $1,000,000 plastic surgery. Jackie is trying desperately to elicit some sort of reaction from me. “Shit, yo! Dat shit is Fuuuucked Uuuup, right, yo? Hey, girl?” I smile politely. I am saved when his bluetooth start blinking a cyan phonecall only he can hear. “Yo sup yo,” he says and wanders off over by the coffeemaker/ice cream station (yes they have one of those at the Super Suds. Amazing.)
I take the opportunity to look around now that I know I won’t risk making eye contact with Jackie.
There is a dry-erase board proclaiming that cans of Natural Lite are only $1.50. There is an apostrophe in the word cans. Can’s Possessive. Not Cans Plural. This drives me almost insane, and I’m glad that my laundry only has thirty-two minutes to go. I look out the window just in time to see beautiful Michael Reklis, who, for the first time ever, is not wearing a plaid shirt. I almost don’t recognize him.
There is a woman sitting across from me at the Crackmachine. She is playing NudieTouch or whatever that game is that you spot the differences in the two pictures of alarmingly outdated semi-naked girls in leopard print thongs and mall hair against a Vegas Italian Vista backdrop or whatever. The woman is speaking pidgen Spanish into her outdated cell phone. Something is funny. She is laughing in Spanish. She gets off the phone and turns to Jackie and says, “Me payeeng me cleaning employees so good dey are buying new cars!” But Jackie’s still on his Bluetooth, talking to no one it seems. She leaves the laundrybar and rummages around in her rusty blue 1982 Oldsmobile, extracts a cheeseburger, and returns to her Megatouch game. Fascinating.
I’m ready to go because it’s creepy in here today. I stand up and start to gather my things. Out of the corner of my eye I see a tiny Mexican child run like hell for the Daytona USA driving simulator arcade game and right before she gets to the grail, she does a fantastic faceplant and immediately starts bleeding from the nose and tooth. When children get hurt, I have to exit stage right as soon as I identify the someone that will take care of it.
I turn around and lo and behold! IN my face there are two short Hispanic dudes will wide, oily-lipped grins and stickin-up hair.
“Hola! I am Juan!”
“And I am also Juan!”
“And we would like to play pool with a lady!”
“And that lady is you!”
“And would you like to play? It can be for money or also for coming to our barbecue tonight!”
“What do you think? You can win both!”
They sound like game show hosts having a conversation with themselves, but directed to me. I point to the Merrymaid Magnate at the Nudie Touch and say, “That lady needs money go to her.”
And I grab my damp clothes from the dryer and ride off into the sunset. Maybe it’ll be a while before I go back.