No breeze, this

The nearest commercial laundry is a 20-minute hike from where I live. It’s called the Breezy Bee Laundry and I go there with a backpack full of dirty clothes once a week.

It’s a small place. Nine industrial-sized dryers line the walls, with names like Whomping Wilma and Bouncing Bertha. Ten washing machines huddle together in the middle. There’s just enough place to walk around to the back to get $5 worth of quarters from Magdalena, the manager. She’s friendly but looks permanently stressed. Her frizzled red hair stands on end, her skin is covered in tiny pink blotches and at 15-minute intervals she runs outside to suck energy from cigarettes.

When I go in this time, she’s clutching her head as she hands me the stack of shiny coins. I ask if it’s a busy day and she snorts. “Huh! I wouldn’t mind busy! But this? I tell ya, it’s crazy.” Breezy’s main business, she says, is from the fancy yachts that tie up at Elsewhere’s harbour. Crews need to maintain their uniforms and table linen blinding white and they’re always on the brink of departure. She glances up. “You looking for a part-time job?”

“Umm,” I say, flustered. I’ve been a freelancer for all but three years of my long life. Keeping routines, arriving at work on time, earning a regular salary: alien territory. Still. How hard could it be, working in a laundry? Customers stuff their clothes into washers and dryers, ask for quarters to feed into the machines, remove the clothes and leave. “Sure. Why not?” It would be fun. In my spare time I could chat with customers, gaining insights and making friends. Plus I’d get paid to do it!

Magdalena straightens up and assesses me. “Ever done this work before?” I shook my head. “We’re a full service laundry: meaning, we do washing, ironing, folding, the whole deal,” for paying customers. “We are open from eight to eight but same-day deliveries gotta be completed regardless. Half hour off for lunch.” She hands me an employee sheet to fill up. “Believe me, honey, there’s no time to breathe.”

Just then the owner comes in. He is a short, balding man with a tan and the remains of an Italian accent. He asks me what my work experience is. I say I’m a writer. Magdalena is disbelieving. “Really? I figured maybe childcare. Nanny.” There are many Latino maids and housekeepers in this genteel resort town. She assumed I was one of them.

I say that I’ll have to think about the job offer. “Don’t take too long!” says the owner with a wheezy laugh. “Positions like this, y’know? They get snapped up!” He’s kidding. He tells me he used to own two laundries. “Had to close one down. Everyone’s got their own machines these days.”

Just then Leaping Lizzie, my dryer, gives a loud PAAAARP. My load is done. I smile, shrug apologetically and leave, deciding to remain jobless for the time being.

(Manjula Padmanabhan author artist tells us tales of her parallel life in Elsewhere USA in this fortnightly series. >marginalien.blogspot.in)

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