Smoky

Joe and I had the equivalent of 2 large moving boxes and some assorted sacks worth of dirty laundry collected after moving three times and effectively avoiding cleaning any clothes or bed linens for a few weeks.

Last night, due to the children’s uncooperativeness to go to school wearing only dirty baseball uniforms, we gave in and went to the coin laundry mat, where, as Joe said so succinctly, we have set a goal to never go to again.

When the ‘Floor Washer Woman’, whom we affectionately named Smoky, due to the scent emanating around the entire establishment, saw us come in with our Santa-sized laundry bags, she immediately wanted to help. Help us learn how to use the washers. Since we obviously didn’t know how to use them. Since we had so much laundry and looked as if we had never used any washer before in our lives. And especially not her beloved industrial-sized mega washers which hold 5 loads. We used the whole wall of that kind.

She came over to Joe, who was sorting and throwing darks and lights into washers, so she could explain how the ‘Free Wash’ worked. We didn’t really understand and quite frankly, we didn’t want to know since the idea of waiting while one load finished and then putting in another load sounded like a 5 hour sentence and using 20 washers at the same time meant getting out of there as quick as possible, it just made no sense, free or not.

I went over to the quarter machine and spent some time unfolding corners on 5 dollar bills when suddenly, a very LOUD and gravely voice from the other side of the room yelled, ‘LEAH! LEAH! DO YOU WANT HOT OR WARM?’ Shocked, I looked at Joe standing next to her, who was mouthing, ‘Oh-my-hell-can-you-believe-this-woman
-and-i’m-so-sorry-i-told-her-your-name’ and I managed to get out a feeble, ‘warm is fine’ with a crooked smile.

In short, Smoky scared the crap out of us. She was so totally in charge and watched our every move like a hawk to make sure we didn’t put in more then 1 cup of soap. ONLY 1. OK?? And when I notified her, tail between my legs, that one of the washers had filled with water but then ceased to actually wash, she came over, looked inside, thrust her arms elbow deep in teenage-dirty-sock-water, shoved the basket around a few times, then SLAMMED the lid down. She said, ‘There, that’ll work now.’ and walked away. Well, my friend, I wasn’t positive but I was pretty sure that lid-slamming wasn’t a scientific method for fixing washing machines. But, hey. I’m not going to argue with Ol’Smoky.

I waited about 5 minutes, lifted the lid while Joe distracted her with a lint-screen question, and saw that it was dead calm inside. I debated just abandoning the clothes. That seemed like a better option than asking her to come and look at it again. If my favorite pair of jeans hadn’t been in there, I would have just told Joe he’d have to do without all his underwear. We could buy new ones. Just walk away, honey. But my jeans….couldn’t do it. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I, uh, *ahem* think this still isn’t working….?’ King Smoky came over, opened the lid, SLAMMED it shut, then accusingly told me it had been working right all day. All day, just fine. Great, all day. She shoved her arms in, moved the basket around again, SLAMMED it shut and then looked at it with her searing eyes that could melt entire cities of solid metal if she chose. I backed up a little behind Joe. She told me that when I emptied the one next to it, she’d put those clothes in that one and we’d just have to move on. Which she did. Like an old pro. She repeatedly grabbed clothes from the dingy water, wrung them out and then FLUNG them into the other washer. She even touched underwear with nary a qualm.

I am still in awe and fear of her. And if for some reason we don’t reach our goal and have to go back there, I’m not going to bring my favorite jeans – just in case. Because next time, I’d just walk away.