This essay is for paying subscribers, though you can read a two-page preview—if you’re into that sort of thing. I usually wouldn’t paywall this type of essay, but I didn’t paywall the last two as I had intended, so I am trying to rebalance whatever. So many people seemed to find the first essay of the series I just completed helpful that I thought I should keep the others free for two weeks to give those who might relate to my experiences a chance to read them.
If you’re a paying subscriber and became one specifically to read fiction, I am sorry for the delay. I’m not the kind of person who can just whip up a story and hit send. I had high hopes of publishing more fiction than I have, but it hasn’t worked out that way, and not from a lack of effort. On that note, I do have a story that’s going well and should, I hope, be ready for your eyes by Christmas—around Christmas. Sometime this year. Thank you for your patience.
Water cascaded from the door’s bottom, giving soap bubbles a ride to the tiled floor, a waterfall of sorts, my very own. I stared at it for a moment, confused. A dozen washers, and I picked the broken one.
Just kidding.
My beanie was clamped in the door jam.
Of course, the door of a laundromat’s washer locks the second it starts.
The puddle turned into a pond. My clothes tumbled and flopped over the beanie, soap suds grinding against the glass—splish splash. I pushed on the bottom of the door, thinking maybe I could crouch for twenty-five minutes, keep my hand on the door, and slow or stop the leak. I almost had it. Not really. The water gushed beneath the machine’s loose metal casing and formed a lagoon on the wooden platform under the machine. Sounds similar to a fountain temporarily deluded my nerves. Short on ideas, I slapped my boot against the door, leaned forward, knee to chin, and tried again to seal the door jam. But water is slippery, and knit hats aren't meant to hold water, let alone mold into a gasket.
Alone in the laundromat, I walked around until I sat, stayed still until I got up, paced until I sat back down, and sought a distraction until I found one: a button. I like buttons. I walked across the room and pushed the button, hoping to summon the service that the laminated note beside the button promised. I looked up at the nearby camera and smiled. Why? Who smiles? More importantly, why did I wave?
The manager who talks too much would probably come downstairs, shake her head at me, and tell me something inane she read on Facebook. What could she do? You couldn’t even reach the outlet to unplug the machines.
Meanwhile, I walked around the island of washers, tired myself out, and plopped back into a chair. Might as well read, I thought. Nothing could be done. Nobody came. I waited. For what? For the machine to stop. Duh. Only twenty minutes to go. The tide was rising.
On the legal pad, I scribbled, “Write about the time you flooded the laundromat.”
I read the first paragraph of a short story three times and stopped. The pond had turned into a lake, stretching under my seat, about fifteen feet from the washer. It had lengthened, too, expanding to roughly fifteen feet long.
Unable to sit still, I took a lap and noticed on my return trip that the water had crawled beneath an empty vending machine. I crouched for a peek and saw . . . what do you call it? It’s a cylindrical shape made of hard plastic and wraps around a cord about a foot or two from the plug—wait for it . . . it’s called a ferrite bead: also known as a ferrite block, ferrite ring, ferrite choke, ferrite core, or an EMI filter, according to Wikipedia. Things I wish I had known last week.