On this day in
1934, the first “Washateria”—most nowadays call it a laundromat—opened in Fort
Worth, Texas. This is kind of a special day for me…kind of, for you see, I was
born in such a place.
It was just a
brief, late-night encounter between a drifting spin cycle and a lonely
unbalanced load. I was wrapped in Downy sheets and left in a plastic basket.
My setting has
never been “Normal.” It’s either “Permanent (De)Press” or “Heavy Duty.” Sad,
bored, low-sudsing? Sure. But I noticed early on that if I put on a happy face
folks were nicer. Wrung out on the inside, fluffed up on the outside: Blue
Cheer.
Seen a lot of
folks come through these doors, and I’ve noticed that most everyone has their
hang-ups. Carefree young couples, acting as if they’ll always be wrinkle-free.
Wheezy senior citizens who still haven’t figured out when to hold ’em and when
to fold ’em. Kids pounding the hell out of a vending machine trying to jar
loose a precariously-hanging Butterfinger.
I’ve tried to get
out in the world and pass myself off as something I ain’t, but I guess who we
really are always shows through. Panhandlers don’t even ask me for money; they
just want to know if I’ve got change for a dollar. Sure, buddy, here ya’ go.
