No. 162 - A Laundromat in Austin
It’s Friday morning in Austin and I’m sicker than a dog. I have the cough of a smoker and the energy of a sloth. My back aches and my nose drips like a leaky faucet.
I woke up this morning to a bed full of books and a pair of bunched-up argyle socks—last night’s NyQuil knocked me out something fierce.
I can’t recall the last time I was sick. For someone who doesn’t take care of himself, I’m rarely under the weather. I have a bit of Keith Richards’s DNA, but this time, the common cold got my number. If I had to guess, going to seven live shows in six days could be the culprit. The live music scene in Austin is quixotic like that.
Sick as I am, I went to a laundromat yesterday morning, where I read Caro’s second volume on LBJ. As I sat there in blue jeans and a white T-shirt (the last of my clean clothes), I felt the heat coming off the rows of silver machines.
If you travel like I do, spending time in these homely locales is part of the game. Sometimes I get lucky and stay in a place with a washer and dryer, but most of the time I strike out—because I prefer old buildings to new ones.
I like apartments with glass doorknobs, real keyholes, and tiny kitchenettes. I like places with history and character, but nine times out of ten, that means there isn’t a washer, so off I go to the local laundromat.
My observation is most folks in laundromats are the salt of the earth. People tend to know one another, have a sense of humor, and in a peculiar way, they appreciate the downtime. I see a lot of service workers—bartenders, waitresses, etc.—who work their tails off, so having an hour or two where they’re forced to sit is a welcome distraction from their usual toil, even if it’s in a steamy laundromat.
I remember being in one outside of Boston years ago. It was tiny, didn’t have air-conditioning, and must have been built in the ’30s or ’40s. I was miserable—actually, to be candid, I was pissed off. In addition to the oppressive heat, I didn’t want to spend my afternoon doing laundry with a pocket full of quarters. I’ve been a bit of a spoiled brat when it comes to domesticity—aside from college and my bachelor years, my mother or wife has always done my laundry.
But I brought a paperback and settled into the heat and hum of the machines. Most of the people were Latino women—short, squatty, with warm smiles. Their kids wore frayed tank tops and plastic flip-flops. When they weren’t thumbing through beat-up kiddie books, they were begging their mothers for a quarter to get a gumball and filling the laundromat with laughter. I got a kick out of them.
Few things bring me more joy than making a kid laugh. I’m not above contorting my face and wiggling my nose if it’ll make a kid smile. I do it on airplanes, in restaurants, and while waiting around in laundromats. Kids seem to find me initially intimidating—probably because I’m tall and I wear a suit—but they change their minds when I stick out my tongue and cross my eyes.
In another laundromat in Providence, Rhode Island, on the campus of Brown University, I smoked cigarettes with college students while nursing a hangover. I’d been drinking beer on Martha’s Vineyard the day before and was feeling the wrath of Bacchus. In between Marlboros, I read advertisements on the bulletin board—from upcoming concerts to poetry readings to dog walkers looking for work. I was just one of the crowd—a drifter with nothing to do but wait for my clothes to dry.
America has all sorts of quirky places where you can see a slice of life that’s usually off your radar. Bars are the most obvious, but bookstores, parks, thrift stores, and laundromats are a window into a part of our country that few people see—at least the folks who can afford to wash their clothes at home.
Think about it—when was the last time you folded your unmentionables in the company of strangers? It’s probably been a while—if ever. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for the convenience of doing these things in the privacy of your home, but there’s something humane about being part of a community, if only for an hour.
Speaking for myself, in my current state, it lifted my spirits a bit yesterday. I needed to get out of bed. And I enjoyed being with my book for an uninterrupted hour.
I guess it comes down to this: when you’re on the road, loneliness is your constant companion, so any opportunity to be in a community is welcomed—even something as simple as hanging out in a laundromat with hungover bartenders and weary waitresses.
I know this piece is rambling all over God’s creation—I get it. I started with feeling sick and now I’m waxing philosophical about oddball communities—I’ll blame it on my illness.
I guess I’m grateful for the little sparks of humanity these days. Americans are, by and large, a welcoming people, and for a drifter, it may be the greatest gift I experience every day.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a shot of cough medicine and slip into a cozy little coma.
*Composed, Edited, and Published in Austin, TX
