The laundromat
a set piece as it came into my head
Rhonda’s wearling curlers in her hair with a white gauze kerchief tied over them, and she’s got her oversized sunglasses on indoors. Her pants are pink polyester double-knit with a standing seam, and she’s got a Vantage in her hand. It’s hot as hell in the laundromat and she blows the smoke out through her pursed lips in a way that sounds pissed off.
She’s shuffling a deck of cards with her neck bent over to cradle the yellow phone receiver on her shoulder. The cord is dark brown because that’s the only one they had long enough to stretch from the wall unit to the card table.
“I don’t know if I give a hoot anymore. It’s the third time he’s done this, Shirl,” she says into the phone while the cards make that riffling sound as they collapse back into one deck.
There’s a 10-inch television set mounted on a metal bracket in the corner angled to give everyone some view and nobody a good one. It’s black and white. Guiding Light is on. Mr. Marcus stands his mop up against the wall and drags the orange step stool over. He’s 60, looks 65, and says, “retire on what? Whaddyoo think, a janitor gets a pension?”
He’s blunt but good-hearted. Mr. Marcus hitches up his dark green Dickies even higher and steps up the stool. He reaches up to turn the volume up for Rhonda. This is her daily story and she won’t miss an episode because you get behind on the plot.
The volume jumps as Mr. Marcus turns the dial but it keeps cutting out and then getting terribly loud with static.
“Thanks hon, I know you tried,” Rhonda calls over to Mr. Marcus, tucking the phone receiver under her arm.
A horn honks. It’s coming from a yellow Ford Maverick with brown rust splotched around. It looks like a rotting banana. A guy about 45 (or 30 with hard living) with slicked back thin blond hair and a mustache is in the driver’s seat.
“Yeah, that’s him. I haven’t even folded the dry stuff yet. Yeah. I know. I don’t know what I’m gonna do about it, Shirl,” Rhonda said. “You’re real good to listen though hon. Uh-huh. M’bye.”
Rhonda sighed and walked the handset past the DOUBLE SIZED front-loaders and put the receiver back in the cradle a little too hard. The bell dinged until the note faded away, as if someone had called but hung up almost fast enough. Rhonda’s sandals went slap! slap! as she walked to the dryer.
She put the cigarette in her mouth and plunged both hands into the pile of clothes in the dryer. She always used the top row so she didn’t have to bend over, especially with her sciatica. They were even worth waiting for.
Barry’s Wranglers were still wet in the seams. Rhonda tried to put her hands in her pocket for a nickel but these slacks didn’t have any.
“Goddamn it,” she said, looking out the window at Barry in the Maverick.
It’s 1978.
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Enjoyed this vivid portrayal of a brief moment in the life of a woman contending with the way things are when choices, sometimes out of her control, sometimes not, take her on a course of hopes and dreams colliding with reality. Your writing captures all that so well. You made me feel like I was there in that scene, and even could have been that woman in another life.
Well-crafted and fashioned like grandma's Jello mold placed thoughtfully in the center of the table, at a family gathering. It holds all the normalized, societal trainwrecks of an era, that just can't be looked away from and feels comfortable on some strange, dark level.