picsbymac

Text By Greg Fallis

Laundromats seemed lonelier back then. In college, it was the most desolate place in the world. Sitting in a laundromat always felt like not being invited to a party. You sensed that other people—people more cool than you—were off somewhere laughing and drinking and getting laid, while you sat there uncomfortably on a bench watching your whites tumble around in a circle. Sitting in a laundromat insured that the second major appliance you bought was a washer and dryer.

You lost those in the divorce, but got a new set after the new marriage, and then lost those too. A cinnamon-colored set came with the condo you bought, unaware the economy would soon collapse. You lost those as well, along with the condo they came in.

And now here you are again, and it's not so bad. The bench is still uncomfortable, but you like the quiet hum of the dryer. Watching the clothes spin is a lesson in personal history. There's the aloha shirt you bought in Antigua on your second honeymoon. And there, the Elvis Costello tee shirt your first wife appropriated to wear while painting the kitchen, her hair knotted up in a continuously collapsing bun. And the pink Tiger Woods polo shirt you got for Christmas as a joke—you wore it anyway, and still wear it to lounge around in the apartment. It's faded now, barely pink at all, and torn under the left arm. But it's soft and it's comfortable. Like you thought your life was going to be.

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