Bubba sighed as he closed the book and took off his reading spectacles. “I always enjoy re-reading this book version of Thomas Wilder’s Our Town. It helps me pause and appreciate the little things around me. Here’s a little slice of Pie a la Americana for you. Enjoy.”
Chico’s Sports Bar was a hoppin’ place to be on a Saturday night. Big screen TVs blasted football, basketball, hockey, and baseball games until closing time at 3:00 a.m. There was screaming, betting, beer-tossing, and the occasional fight. The Starlight Club across town was jumpin’ and jivvin’ to the latest music. Dancing, drinking, and lines of cocaine were the main attractions. Down the street, the Golden Slipper Gentlemen’s Club was even busier. Girls clad in practically nothing were watched through thick layers of smoke by guys in suits or dungarees. The girls danced for dollar bills to be shoved in their G-strings. Yet the busiest place on a Saturday night was a much calmer place – the city’s only laundromat called Alma’s.
Alma died ten years ago after a heart attack sidelined her for several months. Her daughter Sondra picked up the business, made some significant changes, and moved it forward. So much so that Sondra was lovingly nicknamed Alma 2. The laundromat became a mecca for people from different walks of life.
People brought in their trash bags, laundry baskets, and pillowcases stuffed with a week’s worth of dirty clothes. Alma’s offered high-capacity washers and dryers plus long tables for sorting and folding. Soft music from overhead speakers covered every genre from Rock ‘n Roll to jazz to Country Western to even the occasional classical piece. There were dispensers selling soaps, softeners, bleach, and spot removers. Customers had vending machine options for sodas, water, and snacks. These dispensers offered everything and anything a person with dirty clothes might need. But the biggest attraction at Alma’s was the customers themselves.
One could set a watch by Gena Robertson – she always arrived at 10:00 p.m. with one basket of dirty clothes and one basket of sheets. She always chose the same two machines, fed her quarters in, added the soap she brought from home, and started the process. She retreated to her car and then returned with a knitting bag of yarn, needles, hooks, and scissors. She sat in the same chair across from her machines and got to work on whatever knitting project she was doing – a hat for her daughter, a sweater for her brother, or an afghan to enter in the county fair. Last year she tried making a sweater for her little chihuahua, but Matilda preferred chewing it instead of wearing it. The knitting helped keep her aging fingers nimble because she was a pianist on Sunday mornings at her church. With her clothes washed, dried, and folded, she left promptly at 11:45 and waved to all as she strolled out to her car. She smiled at the fresh smell of her clothes filled the car as she drove home.
Two old widowers took their laundry to the same group of machines to wash and dry. Frank Pierson had been a representative for Custer Land Management in North Dakota. Dan Olson was a retired sales manager for Galaxy Pharmaceuticals in New York. They first met at the hospice center where their wives passed within hours of each other. Neither had children and practically retired at the same time. They now bonded over stale coffee and tears of sorrow. While they waited for their loads of clothes to wash and dry, they played chess as they had for several years. They discussed their former careers, the weather, baseball, politics, and old TV shows. Neither cared who won the chess matches. They simply wanted to visit with someone of their own age and background.
Vanessa Gilma was a college student who dragged two laundry bags stuffed with clothes to an isolated corner with a washer and a dryer. After she loaded the washer and dropped in the correct number of quarters, she put on a headset to withdraw herself from the world around her so she could concentrate on the studies she brought. Her scholarship provided room and board while she studied and kept up the grades her scholarship required. A college double degree in biochemistry and biomedical engineering would mean a new path to a brighter future for her and an escape from the real poverty she would never discuss with anyone.
Mona Timpkins was a mother of four who usually arrived late and had her kids sleep on palates while she washed clothes. She worked as a cook at an elementary school while her husband Nick was a night janitor at another school. Nick also worked ‘off the books’ as an electrician or plumber and was paid ‘under the table’. While the kids slept, and the washers did their job, Mona and Nick shared the only real quality time they could muster in a week consumed with work and kids.
Mauricio sat outside the laundromat with his food cart attached to his bicycle. During the summer, he sold ice cream. During the colder months, he had churros to sell. People could smell the buttery, cinnamon flavor as they walked past his cart and into the building. He was saving his money to get a better bicycle – one that was motorized – so he would not struggle so much on hills.
A homeless man made himself as invisible as possible when he trudged in just before midnight. He made no eye contact with anyone and sat in the back of the laundromat — not to wash clothes but to warm himself. Rico Fuentes was the weekend night manager at Alma’s and watched the unknown, unnamed man while he was inside. Rico was not concerned the man would steal anything or cause any trouble. Instead, he was truly concerned about the man who would probably die hungry and alone — unknown and unmourned. So, Rico drove through Big Bob’s Burgers and More for food so the homeless man could eat for several days.
Carla and Arturo Dominguez were a low-income family of three who had a late-night picnic on the floor while clothes were washed. Carla spread out a couple of blankets on the floor while Arturo played with their son Benito in the small playground in the back of the laundromat. Occasionally a police officer would stop by since Alma’s was one of the few places open late on Saturday night. Carla and Arturo feared such visits by the “Policia” since they were undocumented. It was a gamble they felt compelled to risk – their 11-year-old daughter Jasmina had been killed in gun violence in Southern Mexico. They had to provide little Benito with a future in America.
A sharply focused yet quiet man marched into the laundromat. He moved quickly to wash sheets and a bedspread in a high-capacity loader. It took two times to remove the blood stains. Sergeant Cary Wasson had been awarded a commendation for his leadership and work until he was injured in Afghanistan by an IED. He was honorably discharged and sent home with only one leg. His working partner, a Doberman named Ajax, was brought home in a canine coffin to full military honors. Wasson had found Babydoll in a city shelter and adopted her, an abused, one-eyed Heinze 57 variety dog. They always took care of each other – until now. Wasson grumbled something about Babydoll giving birth to a litter of four in the middle of his bed. He fought back tears as he lamented something about two pups dying before he could help. Babydoll stared at him as she yelped and bled to death. Vanessa Gilma the college student helped Wasson fold the sheets in silence. An occasional small smile and darting glance was all the interaction they had.
Sara and Benjie did their laundry in the laundromat since their washer at home was busted … again … the second time. The washer busted the first time when Benjie forgot to empty his pockets and coins jammed under the universal joint and tub seal and stopped the agitator. The result was water everywhere on the floor and smoke in the air. He killed it the second time when he decided to wash his work boots that were loaded with small rocks and sand. Before it began to belch smoke, the washer set off the house alarm. Benjie tried to repair that washer every time, but washing machine repair skills were not in his wheelhouse. He never could figure out how the doohickey balanced the whatchamacallit so the up-n-down thingamabob would work right. Tonight at Alma’s, Sara would not let Benjie go near any washing machine or dryer. “Just sit there and read your book,” she ordered. “The Two Terrors of Tulelake will keep you occupied. We can’t afford the cost of the repairs to even one of Alma’s commercial machines.”
These are not just strangers. They are not just customers. In many ways, they are Alma’s family, though not related by blood but by a common thread. And there are dozens more such stories yet untold.