Nine Inch Spin Cycle

The rhythm of the dryer reminded me of industrial metal. Seated on the blue plastic chairs under the cool white glow of fluorescent lights, I closed my eyes and imagined Trent Reznor sitting backstage waiting to come on. The squirt of water into one of the washing machines added to the symphony, and the increasingly manic whir of the rapid cycle brough the tempo up a notch. 

The laundromat was empty except for me and one old guy who was sitting on the opposite side of the room. I doubt he was expecting a Nine Inch Nails gig, but you never know. He wore one of those peaked caps that old Englishmen wear in films, and a collared shirt that was buttoned to the very top, making his neck look all wrinkled like the part of a chicken thigh where it meets the arsehole. Not a typical fan I thought, though his right foot was tapping in time with the washing machine so I could have been wrong. It was hard to tell. 

He noticed I was watching him. I nodded and offered that familiar expression that kind of says a polite 'hello' but is also kind of a polite 'fucking leave me alone'. Sort of half smile, half lips pursed together. I looked down at my feet and watched as they tapped out the rhythm of the drier. He wasn’t going to like what was coming but I needed it. I couldn’t find my muse without it.

I walked to the washing machine. 17 minutes left. That meant that I had about 12 minutes before Trent would appear. The live performance would go for almost five minutes. The world would disappear, and I would be absorbed in the sounds of the machines around me. The man in the peaked hat would probably leave. They usually did. For now, he simply looked at me with an expression of pure confusion as I applied black eyeshadow.

Another man waddled in wearing flip-flops and a singlet that was about a couple of sizes too small. I looked up and gave him the pursed lip look of recognition and he returned the same and shrugged. I bet it was the eyeshadow. 

I hadn’t always been a fan of Nine Inch Nails but I’d noticed one night while I was waiting for my load to finish that when I really paid attention to the rhythm of the machines my mind seemed to clear and left room for something else. Inspiration. And it happened that it reminded me of Nine Inch Nails. Trent became my muse.

Twelve minutes. Seven minutes to go. Waddling singlet man had decided not to sit next to me or peak hat man, and had instead sat outside on one-and-a-half chairs under the neon laundromat sign.

It was time for me to get changed. There isn’t really any privacy in a laundromat. I guess most of the time there isn’t really a need for privacy since most people are there simply to wash the clothes they have worn already. Not me. I hadn’t yet worked out why I needed to get changed at the laundromat but I had tried it a few times and it wasn’t the same. I needed to walk in wearing whatever I had been wearing on that day. I needed to sit and listen to the machines. I needed to wait for the familiar buzz of washing machine number 14 as it reached a crescendo of spinning. Then I needed to get changed. 

I stood up and looked at old peak hat man. “I’m really sorry for what is about to happen,” I said, prompting a look of fearful bemusement. I assured him that he was not in any danger and, somewhat surprisingly, he stayed sitting right where he was, pulling his laundry basket just a little closer to his feet.

I pulled off my jeans, throwing them onto the floor in front of me, then I reached over my shoulders and lifted my shirt. I saw myself in the mirror to my right and was momentarily embarrassed by the thick coat of middle-aged grey hair on my back. “The show must go on,” I whispered to myself as I threw off my underwear and stood momentarily naked before the old man who was doing an unconvincing job of pretending not to notice what was happening. 

My leather pants stuck to my thighs as I tried like a man possessed to put them on as quickly as possible. I danced across the tiled floor, hopping up and down as I heaved one leg up, inch by inch. I almost fell over and steadied myself against the wall. Peak hat was now watching me with his mouth slightly open. I thought I saw him mouth the words, “what the actual fuck?” I got the pants on and then my slightly moth-eaten shirt. I was ready.

The drier reached the downbeat of its second last spin cycle and settled again into a rhythmic pulsing beat as the drier maintained a steady hum.

“You let me violate you.” I began to sing. Now was Trent’s time to shine.

“You let me desecrate you.” Perfectly timed with the beat of the washing machine.

“You let me penetrate you.” Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

“You let me complicate you.”

Old peak hat man stood and walked out as I danced across the tiles towards the door where w-waddles was sitting. I bent down to and put my face close to his. “I broke apart my insides.” He pulled away sharply and gave a look of absolute horror as “help me” spilled out of my mouth.

“I’ve got no soul to sell.”

I was in a trance. Up the road I could see red and blue lights. They did not stop me from my performance. “I want to fuck you like an animal”. 

Waddles got up and walked, then ran, away from the Laundromat.

“I want to feel you from the inside.”

I was in my zone when the police officer tapped me on my shoulder and I span around, a man possessed, and spat into his face, “I want to fuck you like an animal!”

And then I was tasered.

I came to in a watchhouse cell, still in my Trent outfit, sore and a little broken inside. I sat on the side of the small bench on the eastern wall and pulled out a notebook and pen I had stuffed into my right sock and began to write. The ritual had worked its magic. Trent had worked his magic.

The rhythm of the dryer reminded me of industrial metal…