We used to our laundry in the basement at this run down old apartment called the Berkshires, named after the sort of place where people drink cognac and stay up late to play billiards when what they mean to say is pool, but too much money gets stuck in their mouth. The place was mostly populated with college students ready to leave campus but desperate to stay in its orbit.
The other residents were elderly people, mostly from scattered countries of Eastern Europe, with thick accents. They'd wander the wide halls, which some people say meant the place used to an asylum, looking every bit the part of a recent escapee, wispy hair sticking out in obscure ways. Every now and again you'd hear a story from one of your friends or through a friend of friend who had actually met one of these people and talked to them about living in DC for fifty years, but I was never one of those types. Frankly, they scared me.
The place wasn't too bad for all that, though people are always shocked to find out I lived there. "That must have been fun for an adult," they say, as if the college kids in our neck of the woods were throwing keggers every Saturday and vomiting on our welcome mat. They were fine. In fact, we had the cops called on us once during a book club discussion. The book wasn't very good and things got heated. That isn't entirely true. Our neighbors were just silly college students getting ready for a mid-term.
We eventually had roaches and mice, but that's not really the story I'm telling here. Back then it was decided that I would be the one in our house to do the laundry. It was really my only other chore beyond going to grad school classes and talking about Hemingway, Fitzgerald and why the short story was dying in America, so I took it seriously. I'd walk downstairs, usually on a weekend night, bags slung over my shoulder like some cheap, skinny Santa Claus. I could usually feel tendons in my forearm actually shredding with the weight.
The machines were routinely out of service, and you had to check them to make sure they weren't full of water before you started your load. This is all years ago and for all I know the place is like a manor house now with bath attendants and people who iron your clothes, though I wouldn't bet on it. Anyhow, after getting myself ready I'd sort the loads, whites and colors because my wife always wanted me to do it that way, despite the fact that I'd read somewhere that it didn't matter. Read somewhere wasn't considered a credible source.
After loading all the clothes into the dryer, laboriously pouring over enough quarters to fill an entire fountain, I'd slip off my clothes and turn on the wash. We were a frugal family growing up, and I'd grown accustomed to saving every last bit of water, so naturally it seemed to me that things would be the same there. Mind you, I wasn't entirely nude. But I was close. I saw no need of leaving on my shoes and pants when they'd just go to the bottom of the laundry pile for a week or three as I wasn't very good at doing my job regularly.
And then I'd sit in my underwear and read a book on one of the empty dryers, waiting for my clothes to finish. Or sometimes I'd walk over to a little shop that used to be there, which was operated by a Korean family, who rented movies and sold alcohol and pop corn and cheese if you needed it. I'd browse the movies and chat with the owner, who always treated me with the dignity of any other customer.
You see that customs in families and cultures are just like that. I couldn't understand why people looked at me as if I were a stranger when I walked around the store in my underwear, trying to find the proper can of Mayonnaise. For me, it was considered quite normal. At first I thought that perhaps my figure was displeasing, but I was 26 then, and though it may be hard to imagine for people who know me now, I was in decent shape. It was only after a complain was filed against me by a tenant, probably the same one who one night keyed my car with the words, learn to park. This complaint was brought to my attention by the manager, a self-assured white man, the likes of which we're all used to, who was completely incapable of getting the roaches or mice out of my apartment, but who was always happy to snatch a rent check from me. Is there anything so hated in the world as a building super?
It was communicated to me in no uncertain terms that it would be in my best interest to leave my clothes on if I planned on continuing to take up residence in the Berkshires. At first I was confused, didn't everyone grow up in a single parent home in which no spare ounce of water was wasted? What was so wrong with my body, with any body that would cause someone to file a complaint? This line of thinking did me no good at all, but you're an intelligent person and probably already knew that.
I should confess, dear reader, that eventually I did start wearing clothes when I was doing the laundry, and though I went about the same tasks, chatting with couple in the grocery store about the wind and the rain, or reading a book on the small bench, everything was changed. I could see that in changing my behavior I had changed something essential about myself that I'd never get back. At home, at night, I'd wander around the house in my underwear for hours, looking out the large window at the traffic below, or at the building across the street, which looked like a spaceship, where window washers were always at work though no one seemed to live there.
The glass was cold, and I'd stand for an hour or more, waiting on the light to change. Sometimes it would gather in the boughs of an old magnolia, who's pink flowers were the first harbinger of spring, and I'd wait for it to move on before I left. Outside, mid day, students would sit out on the lawn in their bathing suits, guys shirtless, reading books called International Communications or Basics of Accounting while I reflected on the strangeness of the world.
I haven't told this story to many people because they often also find it strange that I used to do my laundry in my underwear. I always say to them, "Isn't everything in life strange. Isn't strange that you and I, descendants of monkeys from the heart of Africa are sitting across from one another having this conversation. Gravity is strange, and science. Insects are strange and so is the universe." Some people agree with me though most just continue to shake their head, wondering how I once could have been so strange, so different from the person they know now. Aren't we all full of obscure surprises and disappointments?
The other residents were elderly people, mostly from scattered countries of Eastern Europe, with thick accents. They'd wander the wide halls, which some people say meant the place used to an asylum, looking every bit the part of a recent escapee, wispy hair sticking out in obscure ways. Every now and again you'd hear a story from one of your friends or through a friend of friend who had actually met one of these people and talked to them about living in DC for fifty years, but I was never one of those types. Frankly, they scared me.
The place wasn't too bad for all that, though people are always shocked to find out I lived there. "That must have been fun for an adult," they say, as if the college kids in our neck of the woods were throwing keggers every Saturday and vomiting on our welcome mat. They were fine. In fact, we had the cops called on us once during a book club discussion. The book wasn't very good and things got heated. That isn't entirely true. Our neighbors were just silly college students getting ready for a mid-term.
We eventually had roaches and mice, but that's not really the story I'm telling here. Back then it was decided that I would be the one in our house to do the laundry. It was really my only other chore beyond going to grad school classes and talking about Hemingway, Fitzgerald and why the short story was dying in America, so I took it seriously. I'd walk downstairs, usually on a weekend night, bags slung over my shoulder like some cheap, skinny Santa Claus. I could usually feel tendons in my forearm actually shredding with the weight.
The machines were routinely out of service, and you had to check them to make sure they weren't full of water before you started your load. This is all years ago and for all I know the place is like a manor house now with bath attendants and people who iron your clothes, though I wouldn't bet on it. Anyhow, after getting myself ready I'd sort the loads, whites and colors because my wife always wanted me to do it that way, despite the fact that I'd read somewhere that it didn't matter. Read somewhere wasn't considered a credible source.
After loading all the clothes into the dryer, laboriously pouring over enough quarters to fill an entire fountain, I'd slip off my clothes and turn on the wash. We were a frugal family growing up, and I'd grown accustomed to saving every last bit of water, so naturally it seemed to me that things would be the same there. Mind you, I wasn't entirely nude. But I was close. I saw no need of leaving on my shoes and pants when they'd just go to the bottom of the laundry pile for a week or three as I wasn't very good at doing my job regularly.
And then I'd sit in my underwear and read a book on one of the empty dryers, waiting for my clothes to finish. Or sometimes I'd walk over to a little shop that used to be there, which was operated by a Korean family, who rented movies and sold alcohol and pop corn and cheese if you needed it. I'd browse the movies and chat with the owner, who always treated me with the dignity of any other customer.
You see that customs in families and cultures are just like that. I couldn't understand why people looked at me as if I were a stranger when I walked around the store in my underwear, trying to find the proper can of Mayonnaise. For me, it was considered quite normal. At first I thought that perhaps my figure was displeasing, but I was 26 then, and though it may be hard to imagine for people who know me now, I was in decent shape. It was only after a complain was filed against me by a tenant, probably the same one who one night keyed my car with the words, learn to park. This complaint was brought to my attention by the manager, a self-assured white man, the likes of which we're all used to, who was completely incapable of getting the roaches or mice out of my apartment, but who was always happy to snatch a rent check from me. Is there anything so hated in the world as a building super?
It was communicated to me in no uncertain terms that it would be in my best interest to leave my clothes on if I planned on continuing to take up residence in the Berkshires. At first I was confused, didn't everyone grow up in a single parent home in which no spare ounce of water was wasted? What was so wrong with my body, with any body that would cause someone to file a complaint? This line of thinking did me no good at all, but you're an intelligent person and probably already knew that.
I should confess, dear reader, that eventually I did start wearing clothes when I was doing the laundry, and though I went about the same tasks, chatting with couple in the grocery store about the wind and the rain, or reading a book on the small bench, everything was changed. I could see that in changing my behavior I had changed something essential about myself that I'd never get back. At home, at night, I'd wander around the house in my underwear for hours, looking out the large window at the traffic below, or at the building across the street, which looked like a spaceship, where window washers were always at work though no one seemed to live there.
The glass was cold, and I'd stand for an hour or more, waiting on the light to change. Sometimes it would gather in the boughs of an old magnolia, who's pink flowers were the first harbinger of spring, and I'd wait for it to move on before I left. Outside, mid day, students would sit out on the lawn in their bathing suits, guys shirtless, reading books called International Communications or Basics of Accounting while I reflected on the strangeness of the world.
I haven't told this story to many people because they often also find it strange that I used to do my laundry in my underwear. I always say to them, "Isn't everything in life strange. Isn't strange that you and I, descendants of monkeys from the heart of Africa are sitting across from one another having this conversation. Gravity is strange, and science. Insects are strange and so is the universe." Some people agree with me though most just continue to shake their head, wondering how I once could have been so strange, so different from the person they know now. Aren't we all full of obscure surprises and disappointments?
as we mature and grow older don't we all change..be it by circumstance,choice,
ReplyDeleteor accident
loved your last line..obscure and yet to be determined..