THAT TIME MY DRYER WAS BROKE

The whirring of the dryers felt out of sync. The rhythm that I had felt in my head didn’t match what echoed in the fluorescently lit room. Too bright and my head wasn’t feeling all that great. I was tired of coming to the laundromat already, and my dryer only crapped out a few weeks ago. I hate coming here. It’s too noisy, the floor is always sticky, and the scent in the air is a combination of vomit and lavender. Lysol don’t stand a chance here. My pockets are heavy and the quarters keep trying to pull my sweatpants down.

“How are you tonight?” a voice rang through sounds of the machinery.

I looked up and there was this thin, almost anorexic looking woman walking through the door looking at another woman with whom she must’ve already known.

“You know it, just doing these clothes.” The woman responding was a bit larger, but not overtly large. In fact, her shape was quite pleasing until you made it to her neck.

“Yeah, I hear that,” said the first woman.

I turned back to my own basket, empty and devoid of my laundry, just waiting for this noisy dryer to finish. I’m ready to go home. It’s funny though, because no one ever talks to me while I’m here. I know that the first woman’s name is Patricia and the second woman’s name is Connie. They are here every time I am, though I don’t know their names because I’ve been introduced. I just hear them talk. Connie has three kids, little snot noses that drive her up the wall. Patricia can’t seem to keep a man, and she still works at the Gas’n’Go on the corner of the town’s only stop-light. In the corner is Fred, he talks to himself and has the bushiest beard, from what I’ve seen, around. Andrea is a big woman. She gets around with her walker with a seat on it. She opts to sit on it versus the provided seating here. I sometimes wonder what the weight limit is on one of those things. I wonder why there aren’t ever any good-looking women here. I suppose those women are with a man or have washer and dryers at their respective places.

“So, did you hear about…” Patricia’s voice started to say but I quickly tuned her out. I no longer wished to hear any more gossip; I just wanted to go home. Finally, the growling buzz from the dryer went off, and the tumbler inside the machine stopped moving.

“Yes!” I just realized that I said this out loud instead of inside my head. I looked up and everyone there was looking at me as though they just now noticed my presence. I shyly smiled and lifted my hand in a half-hearted wave and opened the dryer door. I scooped my clothes into that once empty basket and closed the door with my knee. As I hurried toward the door, I heard Patricia pick back up where she left off in her story to Connie. It’s like I don’t exist to these people, but that isn’t what comes to my mind. I’ve really got to fix my dryer.

Donald King studies creative writing at Full Sail University. He hails from the piney woods of Southeast Texas. When he’s not writing, he enjoys video games and playing guitar.