The Kronikle Volume 5, Issue 5: Laundry Day, or High-Jinks with the Tuscaloosca-Bound
Of course, I tragically miscounted the foundation garments accompanying me on my trip, forcing the annual pilgrimage that is “Laundry Day”. This year, because I had some other stuff going on, I promised myself that I would hire a cab for both legs of the trip even though the greater part of me continued to insist that act indicated my embrace of undue extravagance and weakness. Ultimately, neither my logic nor my preference won out since, on the appointed day, I noticed I would be hiring a cab on a Friday at 5pm in downtown Louisville. Concluding that was going to take FOREVER, impatience decided my fate. I walked past the complimentary bourbon margaritas offered by the hotel restaurant to pack my clothes (fairly certain the bourbon would leave me ill-equipped to negotiate my way past individuals who needed to tell me I had a “Kool-Aid smile”) and head toward my begrudged goal of the Laundry and Tan Connection which is clean, efficient, air-conditioned, and really, really far away. I get the clothes and remind myself the journey will take me past Louisville's historic district so at least there will be some architectural eye-candy along the way.
I make my way in the general direction of the laundromat and, after a mile or so of elegant, ornate churches I walk past the first laundromat I ever used in Kentucky and, on a later trip, was inexplicably told to leave in no uncertain terms. Every year since then, I walk past looking for signs that it is repentant. This year, it looked like there had been a fire or some kind of magical battle between good and evil or both. “Good riddance,” I thought. Then, I saw the sign that said, “OPEN”. I did not want my heart to jump or to get that tickle of excitement but it happened and I turned toward the building thinking maybe, just maybe I would have a short, easy laundry day experience. The hand-scrawled sign on the door read, “Cleaners—OP3n; Laundry—CLOseD”.Stupid Betray-o-mat, I let you hurt me once again!
I take a few seconds to get my mind back on the goal, using the strategy of visualization that top athletes, good spellers, and women in labor use to get past their obstacles. I switch the tunes to the thrash metal that serves as my leitmotif of personal physical effort and resumed my trek, my attitude somewhere between that lead character from Kung Fu and and a grunt in Nam circa 1972. I move at a steady pace and I start to let my mind wander. In the corners of my mind, I am aware that I have some sense of another laundromat, a secret laundromat, one that I never investigated, having settled for the comfortable but unfulfilling relationship with the Laundry and Tan Connection.
After some mental calculus (not really), I conclude that I am now officially a friendly extrovert with a genuine interest in others and what they know about my quest to chase another windmill. I decide this as I walk past a bustling apartment building called the “Puritan”. I take the name as a clear sign that some force wants me to make sure none of my clothes are witches by using the submersion test. I inquire with a lovely group of the godly (who knew the Puritans loved Bob Marley as much as I do?) and they sweetly answered with “Turn left, Second and Orensby.” I thanked them or blessed them or something and then spent half a block fretting about the fact I heard “Turn left, Second and [I don't even know because I was unprepared for there to be the word “Orensby” in the English language].” I decide to go with the information I have and turn left and head for Second.
Two blocks later...there it was! Aunt Bee's is a working class laundromat in what seems like a middle-class neighborhood (the walkers were out for exercise rather than transportation). The other customers were a diverse and friendly bunch. I watched them and the first episode of “Cops” I have seen in about ten years while I dried out from the humid conditions outside. The woman who ran the establishment sold ice cream in between periods of serious cleaning and allowed me to charge all the stuff I needed to charge. I effectively strategized my dryer use to save on time and money. For the return trip, I called a cab and repeated the address to the dispatcher a couple of times because I think I Oklahoma-ized “Orensby”. Why calling a cab for a single leg of the trip is not a total loser cop-out I can not tell you but part of my brain has justified it with the fact that clean laundry is fluffier than dirty laundry.
Quickly, the minivan arrived (which I think might have jumped the curb) bumping the contemporary rap I will listen to in a pinch but not usually any other time since I have really good taste in hip hop. I step in and notice quickly that either manufacturers have developed a line of auto air fresheners with names like “Purple Kush” and “Kryptonite” or my driver has, you know, cataracts. He turns his head and I note his shaded, bloodshot eyes and they answer my question. I greet him, he greets me, we exchange the basics of our transaction and he does it all with a drawl as thick, sweet, and sticky as a good barbecue sauce. Remembering my new found gregarious nature, I find myself trying to engage him in conversation. I ask about the neighborhood. He does not have a lot to say about that but I am unswervingly sociable. Eventually, I reveal I am from Oklahoma. He shares with me that he will be in Oklahoma in July. I ask what part (Oklahoma is kind of big) and he says it is something like “Tuscaloosa” or “Toolooscoo”. He repeats several times and I am unable to place where he will be sweltering in a month. Fortunately, since he only drives with one hand, he is able to pull out a flyer and shows it to me while he is driving through downtown. “Tulsa” is his destination. I warn him about the heat as there is no Ohio River to lend a delightful breeze anywhere near Tulsa. We approach the hotel and for some odd reason he pulls up to the part where a bellhop is waiting to take my stuff and my hard earned money. I tell my new friend there is no way I am going to pay that guy a tip to hold my laundry and so he peels out, door open to end of the block. We both thought that was pretty funny. Tipped him generously so that he can start saving for one of those battery-powered, hand-held fans for his trip, bid him adieu, and, once I divested myself of my cargo (gave myself a real good tip, too) in the room, I headed out into the night interested to see what else it had to offer.
Until next time, I remain...
Carrie the Red (Stripe)
I make my way in the general direction of the laundromat and, after a mile or so of elegant, ornate churches I walk past the first laundromat I ever used in Kentucky and, on a later trip, was inexplicably told to leave in no uncertain terms. Every year since then, I walk past looking for signs that it is repentant. This year, it looked like there had been a fire or some kind of magical battle between good and evil or both. “Good riddance,” I thought. Then, I saw the sign that said, “OPEN”. I did not want my heart to jump or to get that tickle of excitement but it happened and I turned toward the building thinking maybe, just maybe I would have a short, easy laundry day experience. The hand-scrawled sign on the door read, “Cleaners—OP3n; Laundry—CLOseD”.Stupid Betray-o-mat, I let you hurt me once again!
I take a few seconds to get my mind back on the goal, using the strategy of visualization that top athletes, good spellers, and women in labor use to get past their obstacles. I switch the tunes to the thrash metal that serves as my leitmotif of personal physical effort and resumed my trek, my attitude somewhere between that lead character from Kung Fu and and a grunt in Nam circa 1972. I move at a steady pace and I start to let my mind wander. In the corners of my mind, I am aware that I have some sense of another laundromat, a secret laundromat, one that I never investigated, having settled for the comfortable but unfulfilling relationship with the Laundry and Tan Connection.
After some mental calculus (not really), I conclude that I am now officially a friendly extrovert with a genuine interest in others and what they know about my quest to chase another windmill. I decide this as I walk past a bustling apartment building called the “Puritan”. I take the name as a clear sign that some force wants me to make sure none of my clothes are witches by using the submersion test. I inquire with a lovely group of the godly (who knew the Puritans loved Bob Marley as much as I do?) and they sweetly answered with “Turn left, Second and Orensby.” I thanked them or blessed them or something and then spent half a block fretting about the fact I heard “Turn left, Second and [I don't even know because I was unprepared for there to be the word “Orensby” in the English language].” I decide to go with the information I have and turn left and head for Second.
Two blocks later...there it was! Aunt Bee's is a working class laundromat in what seems like a middle-class neighborhood (the walkers were out for exercise rather than transportation). The other customers were a diverse and friendly bunch. I watched them and the first episode of “Cops” I have seen in about ten years while I dried out from the humid conditions outside. The woman who ran the establishment sold ice cream in between periods of serious cleaning and allowed me to charge all the stuff I needed to charge. I effectively strategized my dryer use to save on time and money. For the return trip, I called a cab and repeated the address to the dispatcher a couple of times because I think I Oklahoma-ized “Orensby”. Why calling a cab for a single leg of the trip is not a total loser cop-out I can not tell you but part of my brain has justified it with the fact that clean laundry is fluffier than dirty laundry.
Quickly, the minivan arrived (which I think might have jumped the curb) bumping the contemporary rap I will listen to in a pinch but not usually any other time since I have really good taste in hip hop. I step in and notice quickly that either manufacturers have developed a line of auto air fresheners with names like “Purple Kush” and “Kryptonite” or my driver has, you know, cataracts. He turns his head and I note his shaded, bloodshot eyes and they answer my question. I greet him, he greets me, we exchange the basics of our transaction and he does it all with a drawl as thick, sweet, and sticky as a good barbecue sauce. Remembering my new found gregarious nature, I find myself trying to engage him in conversation. I ask about the neighborhood. He does not have a lot to say about that but I am unswervingly sociable. Eventually, I reveal I am from Oklahoma. He shares with me that he will be in Oklahoma in July. I ask what part (Oklahoma is kind of big) and he says it is something like “Tuscaloosa” or “Toolooscoo”. He repeats several times and I am unable to place where he will be sweltering in a month. Fortunately, since he only drives with one hand, he is able to pull out a flyer and shows it to me while he is driving through downtown. “Tulsa” is his destination. I warn him about the heat as there is no Ohio River to lend a delightful breeze anywhere near Tulsa. We approach the hotel and for some odd reason he pulls up to the part where a bellhop is waiting to take my stuff and my hard earned money. I tell my new friend there is no way I am going to pay that guy a tip to hold my laundry and so he peels out, door open to end of the block. We both thought that was pretty funny. Tipped him generously so that he can start saving for one of those battery-powered, hand-held fans for his trip, bid him adieu, and, once I divested myself of my cargo (gave myself a real good tip, too) in the room, I headed out into the night interested to see what else it had to offer.
Until next time, I remain...
Carrie the Red (Stripe)