A Laundromat By Any Other Name
There’s just something, ah, “special” about a small town (pop. 864) “Laundry Mat.” First, the prices to wash clothes is outrageous—but since it’s the only establishment of its type for 30 miles in each direction, the owners know they have a captive customer base.
Only half the machines are in working order, the rest are in various states of workability. Signs telling the patrons to “tap on the coin box if it doesn’t start” are scattered here and there, taped to the machines.
A wizened couple sits mute, one munching on a Big Mac, the other blowing smoke from her Camel filtered cigarette out the door, but straight into the wind, which wafts it right back into the laundromat. Lucky me…
The place creaks and moans like a haunted house at midnight, as if at any moment yet another machine will give up the ghost.
I just love the romance of the open road…
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