Laundry Day

An Unzipping Yarn

Full and empty. Well, almost. 

I was in the laundromat, alone you could say. There were no other beings present, but all the washers and dryers were thumping and whirring with a dumb relentless energy, all of them, oblivious to me or the part they played in this mechanical chorus. 

Sure, I was nurturing my own relationship with a revolving basin tumbling maniacally, but it was completely one sided. Presumably, other people had some association with the contents and functions of the crew here but at the moment they had removed themselves from the mundane operation and opted for activities of more interest. Coffees, cigars, croissants I imagine, but who knows. I would probably go stare at the reflection in a mud puddle if I wasn't so transfixed by the turn turn turn of my pajamas in the drying apparatus. They flip onto the window for a moment, sapphire blue, silver stars, then they disappear and sometimes I wonder if they've blipped into some other place for a moment but then they reappear and I breathe again. The PJ's used to be special. Maybe they still are. Just don't want to lose them, you know? 

The walls are spearmint on one side. The kind of light green someone might have described as calming. The other side is wallpaper. Bubble pattern wallpaper. There to remind me of what I'm doing here. Washing clothes with soapy suds. Bubble bubble. Though I am now done that part and on to the heat-until-dry-stage of my time here. They don't have wallpaper for that. What would it be anyway? Fire? Red hot coils? A spiral vortex of atoms with wiggling movement lines indicating the rapid excitement of particles? I wish.

All of this a distraction from my distraction. It's how it is sometimes as far as distractions go. But now, something new presents itself. I suppose I heard it, but it's more like I felt it. The reverb of a bone marimba, percussing from high to low in a place above and behind. And while I remember a clock in this approximate location. This isn't the kind of thing a clock does naturally. It was more like something opening or tearing. Splitting or unsealing. Maybe a fabric - ripping or unzipping. And then I feel a hand on my elbow and hear a diminutive voice.

I'll juth be a minute, it says, like it's reassuring me preemptively in case I'm bothered by whatever  unexpected activity might follow.

It was mid morning and the presence of a child here in the cleaning facility seemed off. Shouldn't they be in school? It's Tuesday after all. And where was their guardian? The small human didn't seem old enough to be out talking to strangers on their own. I thought their sudden appearance was curious and that they apparated right behind me even more strange. I stepped back and to the side a little to get a better look at who I was dealing with here. 

Standard bowl cut, short above the ears, you’d call their hair light brown if you didn’t have an imagination, which I didn’t at the moment. They wore a one piece  fuzzy gray-blue jumper from neck to ankle. It was the absence of buttons and fasteners I found odd, like someone had sewn the form fitting outfit on the youngling without any discernible way to don the garment. 

It sounded like they might be missing more than a couple of teeth by the susurration of their lisp. Gotta harvess the trapth, they say, this time with an un-tiny voice, casual but serious in tone, an octave lower than their first pronouncement, a vocalization, I assume meant to un-assume. You wouldn't want to sneak up and ‘howth it doin’ with a baritone affectation lest you give someone a severe spine tightening. 

They seemed innocuous enough. Child-like but with a mature attention and focus, I'd attribute to a more experienced hominid, they clearly knew what they were doing. Starting from left to right, they opened and shut the dryer doors in rapid succession to suspend their operation and let the tumbling articles settle. I watched the row of lower dryers wind down and noticed a layer of frequencies dissipate into the yellow noise around us. Back to the first machine, the felty little fellow, opened the door, this time slowly, deliberate like it was a part of some ritual. Their little fingers unclipped the dimpled cover to what I now realize is the lint trap. They glance at me like they're about to say something, but then direct their attention back to the careful removal of dolphin blue fluff from the steel cavity. Then with careful fingers they open a secret pocket on their hip and push the clump of material inside. 

I've lost contact with my pajamas and am solely focused on the peculiar events unfolding. Leaning back against the pastel latex, I follow the lint harvester's progress, each time, the door is closed and the low drone re-establishes it's place in the ensemble, each time, stuffing their hidden hip compartments until the subtle ballooning gives them a disturbing curvy appearance. 

When they've finished with the lower deck, we both realize simultaneously, they won't be able to reach the elevated tumblers. They look at their feet, then at the rumbling dryer window above. I scan the block of appliances and then continue my gaze and direct my eyes to the front door. Maybe hoping someone returns and breaks the spell, or perhaps to relieve me of the awkward position I find myself in. 

Not seeing any opportunity to wiggle out of the scenario, I make the international sign for boost, interlocking my fingers and cupping them low at my knees. I raise my eyebrows too,  the international sign for Can I help? 

They mimic my expression, though their eyebrows are quite faint and low contrast, I still understand their acknowledgement. But instead of an affirmation and acceptance of my offer, they give me a one two shake of their head. The moppy dome of hair swivels and settles dramatically. So I look around for some other options. A box, a stool, a chair? Anything to give them a little height, but the place is quite spare and void of these contrivances. 

Maybe I should just leave under the guise of finding a solution. Just one minute, I could say, and then scoot outside and leave them to their own resolution. But something keeps me here, wanting to help, or maybe I just don't want to abandon my sleepwear. So I continue with our pantomime, tapping my shoulders this time, raised brows again, signaling a shoulder ride, an offer I at once realized was perhaps too intimate to be psychically comfortable but it was too late to take it back. They nod a tentative approval, tilt their head and pout their lower lip, signaling a That will do.

I feel the need to introduce myself before we get close. I suppose, also hoping, that their presumed counter-greeting will orient me toward a more comfortable approach to our imminent connection. But I decide against it, not wanting to give too much away and not wanting to find out too much. A social philosophy that has served me well, insulation from the jagged realities searching for skin to prick, not that there was anything particularly dangerous or stabby about this prelude. I figured we could fulfill our objective anonymously just as well.

I hiked up my trousers, re-cinching my belt for good measure and rolled up my sleeves. Unsure of the best way to tackle the mounting maneuver, I knelt on the floor and shuffled around to present my back for climbing. Apparently this was not a reasonable technique. I heard a loud throat clearing over the relentless tumult, so I turned around to watch them already climbing a radiator against the back wall. A better method, I was embarrassed i hadn't thought of it first. 

Standing in front of them, eyes forward, I bend my knees and lower myself a few inches. That's when I feel the small hand on my elbow again. It's a gentle but striking gesture that raises the hairs on my forearm.

Thank you, your athistance ith appreithiated, they say and I realize it wasn't the easiest six words for them to get out, so my guard comes down a notch. Then feeling the buoy of good deeds and superior annunciation, I speak to them directly for the first time.

It's my pleasure, I say loudly over the racket, still with my back turned to my new acquaintance and suddenly feeling weird about saying the word, pleasure. 

They are surprisingly heavy for such a small creature. I feel the compression down my spine as they hook their fuzzy legs over my shoulders and adjust their position across the back of my neck. I kept expecting a touch on the head but they managed to balance themselves somehow like they had an internal gyroscope. 

Ready? I ask, loudly again, like I'm speaking over jet engines. And after one last buttock adjustment, their bulbous pockets wagging out to the sides, they reach around my head and show me the thumbs up sign.  

As I take the couple of steps toward our target, I can feel the delicate but coarse texture of their jumpsuit beneath my fingers, as I secure their legs against my chest. They smell like lavender and liquorice, a combination that evokes childhood memories from some distant utility closet or grandmother's bathroom pot pourri. For a second, the lens on this absurdist vignette unfogs and I wonder why I feel so inclined to resolve the incident. Why am I so amenable to assist this fluffy figure who's perforated my world?

As we begin the door-open-door-close part of the task, they must have sensed my inquisitive speculation, possibly through vertebrae vibrations and energy signatures, and they lowered their head to speak closely into my left ear. Their voice, somehow now more natural and sophisticated, but still lisping, though slightly diminished. They might have just been avoiding S sounds.

Department of Raw Material Collection, I'm a Recovery Technician, they said and then paused waiting for a moment  before they continued, maybe to judge my suspicion but I suspect it was to give me a second to process their out of the ordinary interjection. 

I kept making friendly Hmmhaw sounds. It was all I could think of to do in the moment. And I think they would've continued explaining their arcane practices, extracting interdimensional fibers, spinning yarns, weaving eco fabrics, but they abruptly stopped when it came time to gather the stuff from my now resting pajama vessel. 

I reached in and pulled out the top and bottoms, now warm and soft. The embroidered constellations crisp against the rich ocean of cotton. I gave them a sniff.. It was a reflex. Odd I know but I couldn't help it. It's something I always did. My ritual. And in a sign of reciprocity and shared experience, I held the dream duds above my head for them to inspect as well. 

It wasn't a long pause, but it was long enough to make me feel estranged from my sentimental possessions. But the feeling didn’t last. The scene was changing. The washing equipment spin cycles were winding down. The dryers started buzzing off. The decreasing volume created a heightened space of  sensorial fidelity. I could hear my passenger running their fingers through the fabric and the breathy wheeze of their nose in the folds of old bluey. I just let it happen. In some way, I was emboldened by this particular reverence and tried to think of a way to highlight and honor the moment so I back pedaled to the radiator for a dismount. You can keep them, I said.

I don't know why the sudden compulsion came over me. Was it generosity? Or maybe something more akin to liberation. I suppose I realized in these moments, holding on to artifacts from the past was keeping me from moving forward. I was beholden to the idea of a memory and not the true nature of my experience. It was time to let go and unbind myself from this vestigial totem. It's not like I wore the things anymore. They were five sizes too small, and they would probably fit their new admirer perfectly. 

They scrambled down from the cast iron heater, still holding the two piece memento. Try them on, I said as cheerily as I could muster, but I suspect the vibrato in my voice betrayed me. This was it. I could feel decades of masked anxiety break off and drift out into the current. Sweeping away into the river of time.

My benefactor, only threw me a quick glance for reassurance before they slipped their legs and arms into the PJs over top of their form fitting felt. Then they flattened out the wrinkles with their palms and adjusted themselves in front of the reflection in one of the convex dryer doors which gave them an even curvier appearance than before. They looked happy, an expression I hadn't seen until now.

I've alwaythd wondered–, they said but I cut them off with a Dut Dut Dut, tilting my finger back and forth.

No need to explain, I interrupted trying to finish the conversation, It's time for me to go. And it was time or else I might have had second thoughts in that moment and wrestled the sea of stars off the material collector in a fit of regret.

So I pivoted quickly and turned to leave. And in that microsecond transition I also heard the unforgettable  sound like a stick on a picket fence, The traveler was leaving, but not before I heard them speak. Their parting valediction, Thleep well.