Getting To Know Your Neigborhood
Okay, not quite there on the 68-and-sunny.
But it's Saturday nonetheless, even if it's been pouring all day. Saturday's been laundry day lately, meaning a trip to one of the local laundromats a few blocks away. This being a unique kind of neighborhood, there are some rather unique businesses around.
It's a decent place, this one. Dingy walls and peeling paint - but when you think of it, have you ever seen a prosperous-looking laundromat? This one looks like an artillery-damaged embassy from the planet Formica, but it's still only six quarters for a wash, and things do get clean. Dryers seem a bit expensive on first glance, at fifty cents for ten minutes, but anything you can possibly cram inside one of them will get dry in half an hour. Three loads usually fit. They may be nuclear powered; i'm not sure.
Besides, no matter what kind of day you're having, the laundromat atmosphere never fails to soothe the troubled soul. I like laundromats. They're always warm and snuggly-fresh, and everything hums in a soothing sort of way against that tranquil soundscape of splashing water. If they'd just replace the fluorescent ceiling bulbs with some gentle mood lighting and maybe a leather recliner or two, they could charge me money just to sit there.
But i digress. No time to sit today, in any case. Katie had already put ours in on her way to Publix, so all i had to do was walk in and take it out of the dryer. It occurred to me that i could plausibly have taken anyone's clothes out of anyone else's dryer and no one would have even noticed. For all they knew, i was just some thug off the street with Wisconsin license plates, stealing that nice girl's underwear.
No one said a word, though, so i escaped without incident. But there's a problem with leaving this laundromat, and it's that you have to cross the parking lot. On the other end of the parking lot is an old local guy with an ancient pickup and beat-up trailer, and to this trailer are welded two huge soot-black drum-style barbecue grills billowing hickory smoke from stovepipe stacks. A folding table with paper plates stands crookedly to the right. The old man reclines in his customary lawnchair, smiling his imperturbably Southern smile, nodding slowly with proprieter's pride at all customers, sheriffs and firefighters and rich white folk alike. You get about halfway across, lugging your laundry, and the smoky-sweet aroma of exquisitely roasted meat hits you like a revelation and nails your feet to the ground. It takes real effort to walk the last ten feet toward your car.
I am unable to report as yet on the taste, as our budget does not currently extend to such ecstasies every Saturday. But one of these days it's going to happen. Come the revolution, there will be parking lot barbecue for all.
But it's Saturday nonetheless, even if it's been pouring all day. Saturday's been laundry day lately, meaning a trip to one of the local laundromats a few blocks away. This being a unique kind of neighborhood, there are some rather unique businesses around.
It's a decent place, this one. Dingy walls and peeling paint - but when you think of it, have you ever seen a prosperous-looking laundromat? This one looks like an artillery-damaged embassy from the planet Formica, but it's still only six quarters for a wash, and things do get clean. Dryers seem a bit expensive on first glance, at fifty cents for ten minutes, but anything you can possibly cram inside one of them will get dry in half an hour. Three loads usually fit. They may be nuclear powered; i'm not sure.
Besides, no matter what kind of day you're having, the laundromat atmosphere never fails to soothe the troubled soul. I like laundromats. They're always warm and snuggly-fresh, and everything hums in a soothing sort of way against that tranquil soundscape of splashing water. If they'd just replace the fluorescent ceiling bulbs with some gentle mood lighting and maybe a leather recliner or two, they could charge me money just to sit there.
But i digress. No time to sit today, in any case. Katie had already put ours in on her way to Publix, so all i had to do was walk in and take it out of the dryer. It occurred to me that i could plausibly have taken anyone's clothes out of anyone else's dryer and no one would have even noticed. For all they knew, i was just some thug off the street with Wisconsin license plates, stealing that nice girl's underwear.
No one said a word, though, so i escaped without incident. But there's a problem with leaving this laundromat, and it's that you have to cross the parking lot. On the other end of the parking lot is an old local guy with an ancient pickup and beat-up trailer, and to this trailer are welded two huge soot-black drum-style barbecue grills billowing hickory smoke from stovepipe stacks. A folding table with paper plates stands crookedly to the right. The old man reclines in his customary lawnchair, smiling his imperturbably Southern smile, nodding slowly with proprieter's pride at all customers, sheriffs and firefighters and rich white folk alike. You get about halfway across, lugging your laundry, and the smoky-sweet aroma of exquisitely roasted meat hits you like a revelation and nails your feet to the ground. It takes real effort to walk the last ten feet toward your car.
I am unable to report as yet on the taste, as our budget does not currently extend to such ecstasies every Saturday. But one of these days it's going to happen. Come the revolution, there will be parking lot barbecue for all.
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