Virgin Rants

Lonely Mr. Wilson and the Laundrymat

2/23/15

An old Taylor swift song plays on the radio. I don't like Taylor Swift, though I had the same song stuck in my head just recently.

There is a man, he wears a burgundy flannel shirt and looks like Mr. Wilson from Dennis the Menace. Only more weathered. His hairline is receding and he has a potato nose. His skin is almost salmon colored and is rilled with deep lines and gutters. large pores. He just stands and sways around- hands in light beige pockets- whilst waiting for his laundry to dry. He looks bored. I'll bet this is a weekly ritual for him, going to the laundrymat and being bored.

I cannot understand how he could come here without something to do. He should have brought a book, or a crossword puzzle. Why would you subject yourself to such tedium?Maybe though, he is okay with being left to dwell on his own thoughts. Maybe he has a simple happy life with an aging wife and a kid or two in college. Maybe he has grand kids.Or maybe, he is trapped in the midsts of boredom. As I once was.

Swaying to the constant drumming of the dryers and washers, wishing things were different. Wishing he wasn't so lonely. Wishing his kids weren't so 'busy' that they couldn't visit him in this miniscule brown rice Virginia town. South Hill. Maroon Five is playing now. I don't like Maroon Five, though I've had this song stuck in my head before.

Mr. Wilson smiles at me as he leaves. It's a tight lipped smile, his eyes turn into side ways rain drops. His laundry basket is red, it's red and filled with clothes. He opens the door awkwardly and I nod at him from my ill grey blue perch. I am in the annoying habit of being falsely friendly and hostess-like to everyone. Retail portraiture will do that to you.

I hope his kids visit him. If he has them. Get well soon, Mr. wilson.

Now an annoying lady on the radio is screeches about how she's working on her "masterpiece."

I don't care about you friggin' masterpiece. Shut up, loud lady.

Mom drives up and walks in. We flip over our three loads of laundry and turn them into two. Two loads flipping around in the giant dryers.

I idly wonder if I could fit in there. Spinning around and around.

I read to her what I wrote about Mr. Wilson. She smiles with her bunny teeth and laughs. Its stops and Mom puts more quarters in, getting frustrated whilst I don't really care. Although I do care, sometimes.

Would I suffocate in that dryer?

A lady tries to come in and Mom reaches for the door from our dull elder perch.

The smudgy glass door has a sign that says something like:

"Thanks for being a good customer! Good customers are hard to find!" It has a big blue smiley face.

Good tenants and shop keepers are hard to find too.

I mused silently.

The front load washer that we didn't use starts spinning like a scifi turbine. Every bit of fabric inside blurs to a grey white wheel.

I am amazed. Mom explains a little about the magical front load washer and it's magnificent spin cycle. We will use the magical scifi turbine next time.

I don't like Katy Perry and I think she is too old to be wearing skin tight jeans. Isn't she nearly thirty? I'm probably wrong.

I suppose people can wear what they want. Who am I to judge?

I like this song that just started playing. Its sounds kinda reggae. I've never heard it before.

"I love you, I love you, I love you."

I don't mind it. Not a' tall.

"I say, I love you."

I wouldn't go out of my way to listen to it again, although.

"Hold on Bugger," I tell the only cart in existence as he begins to roll away.

Folding time. I roll up my undershirts and stuff them into my hat, along with loose socks and underwear. It looks like a puffy mushroom now.

I don't ever fold my socks and underwear. Time is to be wasted in fun, not in tedium.

Mom shows me a cute video about a baby. I laugh and smile with my own bunny teeth, the tips blued from the wearing away of enamel. They are yellow too, no matter what I do.

There are so many "boring" things that I would like to type about, just little things that happened. \ Like when the short rotund woman with a winter hat dropped her quarter. I debated about picking it up for her. Instead, her male laundry mat companion scooped it from the dirty floor. A true hero. He was wearing a red jacket and had a similar body type. He had a kind face.

I cannot type fast enough to compete with the boring events of a laundry mat.

(True story, literally written in a laundrymat.)