Tumble Dry Low

Disappointment poured over Dalton when the walls finally stopped melting. The hit of White Dove blotter had been sold to him with the same words he’d heard every other time he’d bought acid - the “standard acid warning” the dealers gave him. “You’ve done acid before, right?” they’d ask, as if they wouldn’t sell it to him unless he had previous experience. After his affirmative nod they’d add, “Ok, now only do half of this at a time.” Then they’d hand it over, usually a small square of blotter with some inventive pattern printed on it, or a brightly colored micropill, like the nitros his grandfather used to take, but in neon shades.

Dalton, in his infinite wisdom, had ignored this warning and taken the whole thing. That was precisely sixteen hours, eleven minutes ago. An exact awareness of time was one of the sidebars of this particular trip, accompanied by an inability to experience any taste other than burnt orange, no matter what he ate or drank.

The visual show was in full bloom when he got to the laundry mat. The spectrum of color started in the flaming screams of bright red that taunted him to stare, fading to an unwinking yellow brightness that made him wince, then calming down into the greens, finally reaching the darker blues that whispered awful black secrets from the cold of outer space. Each of these sensations came in the mix of sights around him, with some remarkable effects. Far and away the most interesting was the soap dispenser machine, whose ordinary hues were, in Dalton’s sight, transformed into an aria from the gods of chaos. He was glad he brought his own soap.

He’d come with four large loads, all evenly sorted and stuffed into an olive drab military duffel, which matched his coat. Green seemed to be the best color for him at the moment, providing some calm in the flaming sea around him. He had stopped just inside the entrance, staring across the room at the endless row of dryers. They looked like portholes in the side of a bright yellow tile ship. Dalton tried not to laugh at that idea. Instead he simply loaded his machines and slumped back into one of the chairs.

He sat in the warm furry hand of his army surplus coat as he watched the show, the walls sliding down and up as the washers churned. He doubted that he’d attract anyone’s attention. Aside from the jeans, leather boots and green knit cap, the only item that might give rise to suspicion was his sixties-style rose colored glasses. At three in the morning they didn’t make much sense as far as brightness, but they did help to hide the glassy red of his eyes.

As the visuals began to calm down Dalton took some notice of the other people there. The first he tagged as Welfare Mom. This was a thirty-something woman with her two small children, about three and five, Dalton guessed, both girls. All three wore obviously cheap coats, the kind that poor people seemed doomed to wear even if they have money for something better. Why the hell was she out doing laundry at three a.m?

Frat Boy was reading a paper against the far wall. Designer jeans, genuine wool sweater and new parka, Dalton had him pegged as one of those rich college kids from downstate. He looked to be about twenty, which put him roughly eight years younger than Dalton. Frat Boy kept eyeing the clock, like he had somewhere to be.

Nervous and Dickhead rounded out the group. Nervous was a fine, trim blonde coed, the wet dream of many a teenage male. Dickhead looked like he was a redneck farm boy who lifted a lot of weights. She twitched a lot during their on-and-off intense discussion - it seemed like the laundry was the bell between rounds for them, giving each time to regroup while he changed the loads. Dalton smiled. He knew who was going to lose that argument.

The last washer ground to a stop. Dalton got up and began transferring laundry to the dryers. He was in luck; exactly four dryers left. He loaded them, falling into a mental ritual, his mind reverting to the childhood time when everything is play. “Open the door, look inside, shut the door, pay the quarter, set on High.” he softly chanted to himself as he went down the line, bobbing in time with the words. At the last dryer he got to “look inside” and stopped. This was the only load of darks he had, a couple of which were new sweatshirts. On a whim Dalton decided to read the clothing tag for a change, hoping to avoid the amazing shrinking shirt fiasco from his last trip to the mat. He pulled out one shirt on top and read the label. It said, among other things terrible and mystic, “Tumble Dry Low.” Dalton tossed it back in, shut the door, and started the machine.

Slouching back in his chair Dalton watched his loads spin across the room. There seemed something odd in the hum of the machines. It was then that he noticed all the dryers were on, all spinning away in their own particular pitch. He could see rings of sound in the air, floating in front of the dryer windows. Each had a similar color, mostly greens and blues. They called softly to Dalton in shimmering harmony. Suddenly it was as if someone threw red paint into the mix, the rings wavering as the violent color washed through them. Dalton felt his head spin, as if he was going to puke. He put his head between his knees and held on, blackness engulfing him for a moment. When he came to he found himself warm and sweaty.

He looked around to make sure he hadn’t puked or soiled himself. That’s when his eye caught Frat Boy, who was getting up off the floor. He looked to be in about the same shape as Dalton felt. On his right Nervous and Dickhead were coming to, slumped together in the corner. He couldn’t see Welfare Mom or her kids. He shook his head, some of the cobwebs clearing from his buzz. He looked across the room, but the rings were gone. The dryers hummed contentedly.

Nobody said anything. Dalton was sure they had all blacked out for a moment, or at least it looked and felt that way, but he wasn’t going to be the first to say anything. He had not spoken a word for exactly thirteen hours and fifty-four minutes - he wasn’t sure he could say anything. Besides, it could all be part of the trip. Flaming blue parrots could jump up on a laundry tub and start spouting the table of elements, but he wasn’t going to be the first to say anything about them or anything else.

But nobody said a word. They all looked around for a moment, then went back to whatever it was they were doing. The girls began to say something but Welfare Mom hushed them up. Ok, Dalton thought, I can deny reality with the best of them.

He got up and stretched, turning to look out of the large glass window behind him. He wasn’t prepared for what he saw, or rather what he didn’t see.

Everything was gone. The laundry mat usually sat on a street corner, across from the florist, kitty-corner to the ice cream place and next to the antique shop. There was a stoplight at the corner, complete with pedestrian signals. There was blowing snow and cold, which one expected in January. There were a thousand other details that Dalton could name, but the only thing outside the window now was blackness, as if the laundry mat had been dunked into a giant vat of ink. He just stared at it for awhile, then turned and sat back down.

Welfare Mom dragged a couple of chairs up to one of the video games, allowing the girls to jump up and yank on the joystick. She went back to folding clothes while they giggled. Dalton watched her eyes. From the angle it would be natural for her to look up and see out the other front window. He wanted her to look, to see if she had some reaction. After a moment he came to the conclusion that she was deliberately not looking up. Maybe she had seen it when he did, and didn’t want to say anything.

Frat Boy folded up his paper and looked out. He stopped, his brow furrowed for a moment, then he got up and slowly walked over to the window. He tapped on the glass. “Man, is it ever dark out.”

So it is real, Dalton thought. “It looks like there’s nothing out there.” he said, his voice smooth despite the fourteen hours and two minutes of silence.

“Weird.” Frat Boy turned back and checked his dryers.

Dalton didn’t know if he should be relieved or not. He had successfully guessed what was real from what he saw, but he dared not think he’d bat a thousand. Experience had taught him that lesson many trips ago.

The two dryers right of his came to a stop. That would be Nervous and Dickhead, he thought. Something seemed odd about the dryer next to his. Dalton had noticed that most of that load was whites, but something in there had a patch of green, a design of some kind. Now that it had stopped Dalton could see it was a squid, advertising some event in Florida.

He thought that green was a safe color, a good color. But the green in the dryer began to grow, seeming to absorb the whites around it. It held the soft glow of putrescent fungi as it writhed and darkened, filling the whole window of the door with a slimy green skin. The thing squirmed around, stopping to fix a large saucer eye on Dalton, then swirling back to solid green.

Dickhead was approaching the first dryer. Dalton didn’t know what to do. This guy was already annoyed, and Dalton didn’t want to go on a violence trip. Besides, what he saw was completely absurd. “But so’s the dark” the little voice of instinct beckoned. “And you know it’s not just dark, it’s that everything is gone but the sucking blackness of space.” Dalton considered this. If what he did see was real Dickhead might let that thing loose by opening the door. At least he should get him to look first.

“Hey,” Dalton walked up, trying to be friendly. “Did I use this other dryer?”

Dickhead cocked an eyebrow, a hostile accessory to his look of indifference. “That one? I don’t think so. That’s mine.”

“Well, gee,” Dalton bent down, “It does look different.”

Dickhead turned, stopping when he saw the dryer. “Oh geez!” he rolled his eyes. “What crap did you put in the wash?” he called over to Nervous, who shrugged. “If I have to...

Dalton tried to stop him, but he opened the door too quickly. The green spun around, revealing two large hooked tentacles, which raked into Dickhead’s arm. He barely had time to scream before a wicked, clicking beak emerged and bit it off.

Blood spurted everywhere as Dickhead stumbled back, slipping on the tile floor. The tentacles went low and hooked into his legs, hoisting him up, screaming. Dalton grabbed Dickhead by the remaining arm, trying to pull him free. He had been right - Dickhead was strong, even with one arm - but it was no use. His screams became shrieks as with relentless crunching he was pulled in. When his grip went soft Dalton let go, quickly shutting the door behind him. He saw Dickhead’s limp hand in the window for a moment, then the green swirled, leaving nothing but the slimy skin.

For the first time Dalton heard Welfare Mom and Nervous screaming. He was certain they were screaming before, and probably him too, but his attention had been elsewhere. Dalton stepped back from the dryer and looked around. Blood was everywhere, sticky red barnacles on the yellow tile ship.

“Shut the fuck up!” Dalton screamed above them. To his surprise they shut up, cutting back to a jerky sniveling. Their screaming had been almost painful. Dalton reeled. “No matter what else we do, nobody open that door.” They nodded.

“What the fuck just happened?” Frat Boy’s newspaper was all over the floor. Dalton thought he must have literally jumped out of his chair when Dickhead got grabbed.

“We have to call the cops, or somebody.” Welfare Mom burbled. Nervous collapsed into a nearby chair, eyes wide, focused on the dryer, shaking.

“Good luck.” Dalton walked over to the pop machine, inserting a dollar. Welfare Mom was at the phone next to him, dialing 911. As the pop fell, Dalton considered that he probably shouldn’t assume the machine would work the way it was supposed to. He examined the bottle, then cautiously twisted off the cap. Only the usual hiss of carbonation met his close inspection. Dalton took a few swallows and smiled. Yum, he thought, burnt orange refreshment.

“The phone’s dead.” Welfare Mom beat on the receiver a few times. “What the hell is going on?”

“Doesn’t surprise me.” Dalton sat down. “There’s nothing out there anyway.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“You know.” He waved a hand towards the window. “Look. There’s nothing. It’s all gone, or we’re someplace else, something like that.”

“What?” Frat Boy wasn’t buying this. “What do you mean, it’s all gone?”

Dalton was beginning to not like this example of consumerism personified. “Hey, just look. Where’s the street? Where’s the fucking sidewalk right outside the door? No way is it that dark out. We’re not on that street anymore. Ask yourself, do giant squids live in dryers? Is it everyday one appears out of nowhere and eats somebody?”

“I don’t know what that is in there, or how it got there, and I don’t care. I just want out of here.”

“So go.”

Frat Boy looked out the window at the relentless blackness. Welfare Mom had retreated to the corner, gathering her kids.

“Don’t do it.” Nervous begged him. “Don’t open anything. My God, it just ate him... the way he screamed....” she returned to sobbing.

Frat Boy pointed an accusing finger. “Shit! Your boyfriend just got killed. We have to do something.” Frat Boy slowly approached the door. He tapped on the glass. Nothing happened. He inclined his head, listening.

“There’s nothing to hear out there.” Dalton said. He moved behind a laundry table, bracing himself. “You might kill us all if you open that door.”

“Oh bullshit.” Frat Boy dramatically stepped to one side, grinned, and with a sweep of his arm opened the door. It swung open easily, slapping metallically against the stop. The blackness yawned beyond, the light from the room disappearing just beyond the doorstep.

Nervous and Dalton had both flinched when the door opened. Dalton expected the air to be sucked out of the room, hurling this jerk to explode out in the vacuum. Instead Frat Boy stood there triumphant, still with that stupid grin. “See? You’re all full of shit. Now I’m going to get the cops, ok?” He turned and began to step into the blackness.

His left foot stuck at the doorstop, the blackness like a solid wall of dark taffy. Dalton saw him try and pull back, but he was held fast. Reflexively Frat Boy put up his hands, touching the dark beyond the door. Dalton wasn’t sure if Frat Boy reached for the blackness, or if it drew him closer, but that was the last conscious move he made. At least Dalton hoped so, for when his hands touched the wall Frat Boy stiffened momentarily, then slowly deflated like a balloon, his insides sucked out through his hands and leg with a horrible wet writhing from underneath his skin. Dalton knew it took exactly fifty-three seconds for Frat Boy to become a shriveled skin bag, limp by the door, until that too was pulled away into the blackness like an old sweater being turned inside out.

Nervous slumped to the floor, curling up into a whimpering ball. Dalton looked over to Welfare Mom, who was rocking her kids against her in the far corner. Her eyes were tearful but wide. Dalton slowly went over and shut the door. He came over to her quietly.

“Hi girls.” They looked up from their mother’s embrace. Dalton held up a quarter. “Do you want to play that game?”

The older one looked from the quarter to her Mom to Dalton. “Yeah.”

“There you go.” Dalton gave her the quarter, putting her on the chair in front of the game. “Your mom and I are going to talk for a minute.” He sat down next to Welfare Mom, who took out a tissue and blew her nose.

Dalton took a long drink of burnt orange. He motioned towards Nervous. “She’s not going to be worth anything. I think I know how we can get out of this, but I need your help.”

She thought about this, her gaze flitting from her girls to the blackness beyond the door. “Ok. What do you have in mind?” she said.

“I saw this happen.” Dalton said. “I mean I think I saw what caused our problem. I don’t know where we are or what exactly happened, but it has to do with the dryers.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I saw the sound of the dryers before we all blacked out. I think the dryers opened some kind of gate, and we went through. If we can make them produce the same sound, maybe we can go back.”

“How do we do that?”

“Well, we’ll have to run all the dryers and see what happens.”

“Ok” she shrugged. “What about that one?” she pointed at the green dryer, the window framed with sticky blood.

“I’ll do that one. We’ll turn it on last.”

Dalton picked up Nervous and set her in a corner across from the dryers. She remained curled into a ball on the chair. Welfare Mom fired up the other dryers, then handing a quarter to Dalton, she retreated into the other corner with her kids.

He stayed flat against the wall, ignoring the blood smearing on his coat as he popped the quarter in and turned the dial on High. The dryer began to spin. Dalton looked through the window. The green skin was replaced by various underwear, held tight to the walls like drunken teenagers on a carnival ride.

Dalton stepped back, careful to give the front door a wide berth. He noticed Welfare Mom huddled back in the corner with her kids. Her face was buried in their shoulders, as if she were protecting herself from seeing what was going to happen. Nervous retreated into silence, huddled as tight as she could be off in a chair.

The circles appeared again for Dalton, an even set of blue rings, vibrating softly in the air with the sound of the dryers. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

This suspicion was confirmed by the blackness, which began to press in on the glass. Dalton stepped back, amazed. The panes didn’t shatter, but bent like clear rubber as the blackness protruded inward. At the moment it was a gentle flexing, but it was getting bigger, as if the blackness were gaining confidence from the dryer’s call. Dalton knew he’d better figure out what to do fast before the sucking darkness reached all the way in and deflated someone else.

He remembered, or thought he did, that the rings were a different color the first time he saw them. But was that the truth, or another hallucination? There was a lot more than embarrassment riding on this. He went over it in his mind - what had he done? The playful tune returned, “Open the door, look inside, shut the door, pay the quarter, set on High.” He walked over to his first dryer, miming the ritual. When he got to the last he saw the darks, black and navy blobs flopping over endlessly. The darks, he thought. That was right. They don’t go on High. Dalton switched the dryer to Low.

Dalton turned around, surprised to see the circles in front of him. They were a happy green-blue, shimmering in the air. Past them he could see the blackness. It pushed in and froze, then flew back, revealing it’s source. He wondered again - what was real, and what was hallucination?

They had been held by some kind of huge tentacle. Dalton guessed it was at least a hundred miles long, whipping away from them with amazing speed. It was the nearest part of a huge writhing mad ball, which he guessed was at least the size of a large star. It lashed wildly into space, blotting out points of light, endlessly hungry for whatever it could grasp. Mindless chaos from across the stars had reached out and held them, eating Dickhead and Frat Boy. Something in the hum of the dryers had attracted it, a cosmic lure shining in the insane void of deep space. The sight tore at Dalton’s sanity, let in with nightmare clarity for exactly thirty-eight seconds. The ball faded away, as Dalton’s head began to swim. With relief he gave in, slumping to the floor.

Cold air brought him to. He rolled over and looked out the front door. Snow was blowing in from outside, and farther out he could see the streetlight swaying back and forth in the night wind.

He sat up quickly and looked around. The blood was all still there, along with the humming dryers. He reached up and turned off his four. Welfare Mom was still with her kids, now softly weeping.

“You saw it before, didn’t you?” Dalton asked.

“Yes.” she said flatly, looking up. “I was folding laundry, and I saw everything get dark. It just lashed out and grabbed us. I tried to scream but I blacked out instead.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was afraid you’d give up. I didn’t know what to do.”

“I didn’t either. I just guessed it was the dryers. We’re lucky we could set them the way they were before.”

“Mine weren’t.” she said.

“What do you mean?” Unease began to grow in him.

“I had three going before, two set on Low. I just turned them all on High this time.”

They turned at the sound of a chair scraping across the floor. Nervous had uncoiled and stood up. With trembling hands she tottered toward the door. He wasn’t going to wait around for the attention she was going to attract. Dalton scurried over to his duffle bag, heading for the first dryer. He knew what was about to happen, and managed to get one load stuffed in the bag before Nervous started screaming.

Dalton watched the proceedings from farther up the block, shielded from the weather by a phone booth. The cops and an ambulance came. They took Nervous away in a stretcher, Welfare Mom and her kids they released after exactly forty-four minutes of questioning. Dalton stayed long enough to convince himself that the cops were acting normal, taking pictures and doing an investigation. With that he began the walk home, comforted by the muted tones of white and grey.

Only one thought kept appearing in his mind, a neon harbinger of the future: the dryers hadn’t been set exactly as before. What was real, and what was hallucination? Dalton prayed with every step that when he came down from this trip he’d find himself in the world he left. The little voice inside of him said he would never know for sure.