Final Rinse

“Welcome! Welcome!”

The electronic “ding-dong” had barely finished resounding its announcement before Seth was hailed with the loud, and on the edge of overly friendly, greeting.

Seth grimaced slightly in an attempt at smiling while adjusting his grip on the plastic basket he held in his hands as the pneumatic door closer quietly hissed behind him.

The Host that greeted him was adorned in a simple, but smart, black suit, unbuttoned jacket, white dress shirt, and thin black tie reaching down to the silver buckle of his leather belt. His deep, jovial brogue echoed from behind a full length, wooden mask.

The mask, which extended from what was essentially a wooden helmet, was long and plain, the chin of which reached midway down the man’s chest, the mouth in a permanent, borderline surprised “O” just above. The two thin, centered, elongated trapezoids that made the nose reached from eyes to mouth, the man’s own eyes hidden behind the slits of the ones on the mask.

Several hundred thick, shoulder length, strands of straw simulated hair, and danced and swayed with every movement the man made.

“Many clothes to clean, I see,” The Host continued, constantly shimmying and dancing in place. “Which, of course, is obvious given that you’re here,” he chortled, then turned his attention to Seth’s laundry basket.

“Wicker is better, but no judgments here! Everyone comes here with the same intent, with varying levels of success.”

Seth was somehow sure The Host winked.

“Let us tarry no longer!” he said excitedly as he danced a jig backwards down the aisle, tapping the machines, five to either side, to his left and right happily. “We have plenty of options to choose from. You look like a B5 man. Or maybe a G7? Or maybe one is calling out to you. Never know until you try. But any of the open ones are at your service.” He reached the very end of the main aisle, and bowed, right foot pointed out, and arms spreading in a dramatic gesture.

“Thanks.” Seth started down one of the rows toward the middle of the aisle where they had stopped walking.

“Oh,” The Host stopped him. “You’ll have to exchange your coins and bills for tokens. You can use any of the four machines conveniently placed around the building. One for a quarter. Four for a dollar. Quite the deal, if I do say so myself.”

With a sigh of resignation, Seth made his way to the token machine in the north-east corner, and to the right of the double doors, of the laundromat.

He set his basket on the shelf that ran along the wall, and read over the laminated sign that informed the reader of the exchange rate for tokens, as well as the cost per wash and time in the dryer. Seth estimated his usage, made the exchange, and availed himself of one of the small felt bags that were neatly displayed next to the machine, filling it with the tokens.

“No. No. This won’t do.” 

Seth looked over to see that The Host had picked up the bottle of detergent from the basket and was looking over the label. “Will need far too much of this. Your clothes might have a pleasant scent, but in the end, they won’t really be clean. This ingredient? Can’t even pronounce it. Not to mention…” he threw the bottle into the trash before Seth could protest. “...this’ll clog the hoses. You’ll have to use what we have in house. Specially formulated to get your clothing clean, with no damage to the fabric, or machine.” He placed an intricately carved ivory bottle on the top of the laundry. “Single serving. And don’t worry,” he continued as he walked away. “It’s hypo-allergenic, all natural, and on the house!”

The Host stopped and turned gracefully on his heel.

“If you need anything,” he raised a finger as if he suddenly remembered the thing he was going to tell me. “Let one of the attendants know.” He swept his open hand, palm up, drawing Seth’s attention to the back of the laundromat.

Divided evenly between male and female, the six figures sat evenly spaced along the back wall. Each wore the same style slacks and dress shirts, and their heads were fully covered by cone shaped hay stacks, tied at the top with a red ribbon.

“They are at your service," The Host said and disappeared before Seth had looked back at him.

Seth cinched the token bag and tossed it in next to the ivory bottle before hoisting the basket and heading up the center aisle.

Walking slowly, Seth looked up and down the rows, uncertain of which machine to choose.

It was during this perusal of the machines that he finally noticed the handful of other patrons of the laundromat. 

An old man who occasionally ran his fingers through his thin white hair, unlit cigarette between his fingers, blurring military tattoos on his sun leathered forearms that propped his weight up on the edge of the washing machine he leaned over. He sighed occasionally, the just too tight V-neck white undershirt he wore stretching with the slow heaves of his chest but never untucking from the beltless blue jeans whose hems rested on black, Velcro walking shoes.

A young couple standing side by side sorting laundry into the separate machines before them as they stood shoulder to shoulder yet never acknowledging each other or saying a word.

A woman, roughly Seth’s age, gently and methodically placed items into the machine until she lifted up an infant’s onesie and delayed her actions, somberly contemplating the item she now held in her hands. She caught Seth’s gaze, who sheepishly nodded and smiled quickly and tightly in both friendly greeting and embarrassment at being caught looking. The woman returned soft eyes and a twinge of a smile at the side of her mouth to let Seth know it was alright and returned her attention to the garment in her hands with a deep sigh.

Seth continued up the aisle, stopped, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled through his pursed lips. His eyes danced over the open machines before looking down at the ground and letting feel take over as he walked. Feeling a pull to his left, he went down the row and stopped at a machine when his body felt comfortable. 

J9.

Seth looked around the laundromat, nodded that he felt balanced in this space, and began unloading his laundry.

The stench of stale beer, sun dried in the car, offensive and repugnant, struck his nostrils as his father’s voice reminded Seth of his worthlessness.

The smell of menthol cigarettes wafted from a navy blue pullover hoodie and he could feel her lips against his before she disappeared without a goodbye.

A pair of jeans and stinging pain where his mother had struck him.

Another shirt where…

A jacket when…

Seth felt every fiber between his finger and every living scent a confusing jumble in his nose.

He clenched his jaw against the growing nausea, placing the final item in the washing machine, and opening the ivory bottle.

The scent of yarrow, juniper, and sage rose like sweet, burning incense from a swaying thurible and mercifully overtook the concoction of odors that the laundry had created.

Seth poured the liquid contents into the washing machine, closed the door, inserted the requested number of tokens, selected “auto” for all choices and pressed start. 

As the washer clicked and the sound of hissing water began, Seth leaned over the machine and dragged a hand over his tired face before finding a spot at the folding station by the closest set of dryers along the wall to place his basket and return the ivory bottle under the sign where it said to do so.

Seth walked over to a row of chairs in the corner, pulled a sketchbook and pencil from his back pocket and sat.

As he opened the book, Seth glanced at the starless black outside the storefront then began to pass the time with paper and pencil. He sketched the tired, old soldier. The lonely, silent couple. The melancholy woman. The waiting attendants. 

Judging that hours had gone by, based on the quality of his drawings, Seth stood to check on his laundry.

The light switched to final rinse, so Seth continued on to the back to find the restroom.

He walked down the hall, turned the corner on the right, and entered the restroom. To his very mild surprise, the facilities didn’t smell like much of anything. There was none of the usual stale urine, urinal cake, or disinfectant. 

Seth finished his business, washed his hands with warm water and pleasantly scented soap, and dried them with brown paper towels, carefully wiping up any drops of water he had managed to splash on the spotless counter.

Opening the door with the convenient hands-free handle, Seth headed back down the hall, turned the corner, and jumped back, hand on chest, at the unexpected sight of The Host.

“Jesus!” Seth exclaimed.

“Facilities up to snuff?”

“Yeah. No. Yeah,” Seth shook off the jump scare. “Best public restroom I’ve ever used, honestly.”

“Fantastic!” The Host clapped his hands together. “I shall make a note of it in our monthly reports.” He stepped aside, bowing and motioning for Seth to continue on. 

After returning to J9 and noting the flashing “done” light, Seth opened the lid and transferred the wet clothing to the closest open dryer along the wall then closed the dryer door like a porthole on a ship.

With the correct amount of tokens inserted, Seth selected “more dry” and started the humming, heated, twirling. He watched the tumbling dance of colors for a while before returning to the seat to sketch said image and whatever else came to mind. 

Eventually the tumbling stopped, so Seth retrieved and carried his dry clothing over to the folding area, feeling the softness and warmth in his arms as the lingering fragrance of the detergent mixed with the distinct scent of fresh cleanliness that hovered in his nostrils.

As Seth sat his pile down, The Host snatched the plastic laundry basket away as one of the female attendants placed a wicker basket down in its stead.

“Why put clean laundry in the same basket you brought them in?” The Host shook his head. “Besides. Wicker is better.”

The Host, shuffling backward, retreated, leaving the continually befuddled Seth with his laundry pile, the new basket, and the attendant still standing there.

Seth placed his hands on the laundry and coughed once as anxiety and a profound wave of emotion wrapped fingers around his throat.

A soft, cooling hand rested gently on Seth’s forearm.

He turned his filmy vision to the attendant and felt a single drop run down his heated cheek after a blink.

The attendant patted his forearm tenderly.

Seth took a deep, calming breath and began to fold and place each soft, clean item neatly in the wicker basket.

As Seth placed the final item on top of the precisely folded stack he heard The Host carefully approach and stand by his side.

“Glaoch deiridh,” The Host said, presenting a short clay cup and corked bottle.

The bombast in The Host’s voice was gone, replaced with a calmness and quiet, unmistakable pride.

Seth silently searched the masked face of The Host as the ache in his chest reminded him that no one had ever truly spoken to him in such a way.

Popping the cork, The Host carefully filled the cup with some golden liquor and then handed it to Seth, motioning for him to drink.

After a brief hesitation and preparation for the shot, Seth tossed back the liquor.

Smooth and velvety, subtle notes of sweet honey and toasted hazelnuts, and a vague reminder of pralines, danced over his tongue.

Seth handed the cup back to The Host, who nodded thoughtfully.

“Excellent stuff, eh?” The Host said. “Quite the infusion. And it’s much, much older than even I am.”

With a flair of his hands like a stage magician, The Host made the clay vessel and bottle disappear.

“All set?” The Host then asked.

Seth nodded.

“Perfect. Closing time, and all that.”

Seth looked somewhat befuddled at the other patrons who were still in the various stages of their laundry and then back to The Host.

“Oh, that,” The Host said. “Different hours for different folks. It’s in the fine print. You didn’t read the fine print? No one reads the fine print.” He shook his head. “No matter. It all works out in the end.”

The Host gestured toward the double doors, palm up, and bowed his head. 

The six attendants lined either side leading toward the door, the final two holding the door handles, ready to open.

Seth, with The Host just a step behind and to the side, approached the quiet line of attendants forming his path to the door. 

“Well,” The Host said. “And I mean this in the best of ways. Hope to see you never.”

Seth chuckled and raised the basket in acknowledgment and gratitude, then began his procession toward the exit. Each attendant placed a gentle hand over their heart in salute as he passed.

He paused just in front of the doors.

The attendant who had helped him stood with her hand on the door handle, her masked face turned toward him. Seth mouthed “thank you” and offered a tender smile and slight bow of his head, which she returned.

He drew a steady breath, straightened his shoulders, and nodded to the two attendants at the doors that he was ready.

They opened them.

With a soft, contended smile and steadying warmth blooming in his chest, Seth stepped into the brilliant, illuminating light beyond the threshold.