Fluff and Fold

A visit to the laundromat provides a glimpse into the America you don’t see on television, or behind the safety of the deadbolt on your door. At the laundromat you will encounter all manner of Americans different from yourself that you try to avoid by hiding in your house and taking refuge in material comfort. The laundromat disabuses the cultural myth of an America typified by the single family home, two kids, a dog and a yard to play in with a white picket fence; an apple pie cooling on the window sill, baseball games, and backyard barbecues on the Fourth of July; PTA meetings, cherry red convertibles, blond women, and your friendly neighborhood policeman.

Let’s face it, no one goes to the laundromat unless they absolutely have to. It is the most palpable example that the United States is fundamentally a class system where the rich don't mix with the poor. While frequenting a laundromat doesn’t necessarily mean you’re poor, it invariably means you don’t own a home, are on the move or in transition, or recently arrived to stay. So who falls into these categories? People who rent apartments or shared housing without laundry facilities (in particular students), tourists and travelers, immigrants, and the homeless. People who wash their clothes at the laundromat often live unstable, lonely lives, without even a friend with a washer and dryer to borrow.

What’s curious about the laundromat is that people rarely speak to each other or make eye contact, though they are forced to spend hours together in a confined space using shared facilities. This is the result of a pervasive fear and distrust of others, in my opinion a general characteristic of anomic American society, which is palpable in the washed-out neon glow of the laundromat. Furthermore, we are anxious about having to expose our dirty garments, in particular our underwear and bedding, in a public space and to the scrutiny of strangers. We come to the laundromat looking shabby, wearing whatever is left and still clean, and can’t help but feel naked and vulnerable when our name brand and favorite, best clothing, which has become our identity and armor to world, is in the suds. This insecurity is pure vanity. So long as everyone conforms to the status quo, people don’t really care about or pay attention to how others dress and behave in public. The big illusion, which no doubt comes from a visual culture of celebrity worship, is that we somehow matter to strangers. But the truth is that in the public space we are all equally insignificant, provided that we aren’t a threat. Nevertheless, some worry that strangers will be able to read the perversions, eccentricities, and secrets of their lives like tarot cards or tea leaves in their laundry. Neuroses aside, it is always prudent to keep an eye on your belongings in public.

The problem with the laundromat is that it is a no-mans land. Therefore, if you aren’t there, someone can in all fairness take your clothes and dump them on the counter when they are done washing or drying to make room for their own. So if your shirt fell on the grimy floor and got trampled on, can you really blame anyone for it? You were the one who decided in the meantime to pop into the mini mart next door. But what’s worse is when you come back and you find some or all of your clothes missing. This happened to friend of mine once, and in an apartment complex no less. Turned out that the neighbor liked his live-in girlfriend’s designer underwear and kept them for herself. Not that people hang around laundromats waiting for the moment you leave to steal your used clothes that may or may not fit. I can just hear the conversation from the alley, “Hey Frank, look at this guy. He’s just your size and he’s got a big bag of clothes. Hope he steps out later for a pack of smokes. Ha, ha.” Though a rare occurrence, it can and does happen, which brings me to my next point.

I never leave my laundry unattended. My clothes aren’t any fancier than someone else’s, but they’re mine. I’ve established a relationship with them. I’ve worn in those jeans so they fit just perfect, I remember when I wore that shirt to a successful job interview, and those lucky boxers of mine, what would I do without them? So going to the laundromat requires patience if you want to be certain that no one messes with your stuff. It is a lost part of your day, given that eternal vigilance requires you to put your other activities on hold. It is the time-old trade off between freedom and protecting one’s resources. For you followers of organized religion, the laundromat is how I imagine the afterlife: a limbo between heaven and hell. As you watch you clothes spin in the dryer as if they had a life of their own, looking in on that festive atmosphere of dancing, prancing clothing mixed together in a giant orgy of color, you contemplate eternity and your own mortality. In that drab clinical establishment, where the walls are bare and everyone is alone, you learn to accept the frailty and temporality of the human condition. You look at the other customers and feel sorry for them, as they must also pity you. You realize that much of life is a fight against degradation and decay, and that keeping clean is a way to preserve your dignity. Even the homeless man will scrape his change together and forego a meal or a drink for a clean change of clothes. Sitting in that laundromat, you have time to think about yourself and the world you live in. Your distrust of the people around you is replaced by curiosity and compassion as you watch them going about the daily maintenance of their lives. You find yourself wishing that politicians and business leaders could spend a day at the laundromat pondering their own identity and humanity, while appreciating the humble struggle of average Americans with whom they have little understanding or contact and all too often ignore. It would be nice to see these power brokers of our society stripped bare and forced to air their dirty linen to the critical public eye.