No. 243 - Laundromat Chronicles II: Park City

I’m sitting, free balling actually, in a laundromat in Park City because I ran out of drawers. Everything I have is inside a stainless steel machine with a box of Tide.

I’m listening to Bleecker Street while short Spanish women fold motel laundry.

‍ ‍12 minutes to go

A hipster with leg tattoos and Easter-colored Crocs moves baskets around. She has a pleasant smile and braided blonde hair.

To my left is an aging ski bum in a Hawaiian shirt and rainbow-colored sneakers. His sun-worn face is covered with gray whiskers.

Stacks of white towels are piling up like cotton skyscrapers on a folding table.

‍ ‍6 minutes left

The buzz of fluorescent lamps is drowned out by the hum of washers and dryers.

The Coke machine is half empty—just boxes of detergent, Doritos, and a single Milky Way.

Behind me, through a dirty glass door, are massive green hills with spots of yellow and orange. On the peak sits a massive lodge, the owner of which has probably never set foot in this laundromat.

‍ ‍Time’s up

Off to the SpeedQueen dryer for 30 minutes (for only three and a half bucks).

Then it’s packing, supper in Old Town, and waking up early to drive to Jackson Hole … with a suitcase of clean drawers.