Plink

Plink

My world is spinning out of control. I’m tumbling helplessly in a hot, humid hell.  Not only is it hot and humid, it’s dark and noisy. I feel like I’ll never get out of this place.

I hate the clothes dryer. Tossing, turning, and tumbling around in here with me are a couple of tee shirts, one of those shirts with a little reptile embroidered on it, a bunch of briefs with sagging elastic, any number of socks with grayed soles, and a pair of jeans. Last and least, there is a pair of black satin boxers with red hearts on them; they’re downright embarrassing. They’re the reason we’re here in a Laundromat, instead of at home, where we belong.  I’m the oldest of the bunch, but I’m also in the best shape. I may be a humble chambray shirt, but I’m sturdy and handsome.

There is a faint plink. Damn! I think I lost one of my buttons. It’s been hanging by its threads for weeks now. No one could be bothered to sew it down and now it’s gone. I’ll bet that when The Guy comes back to get us, he won’t even notice the missing button and I’ll never get it back. It’s easy to get overlooked when you’re a little button.

Plink. Plink. Plink. If the cycle doesn’t stop soon the plinking is going to drive me nuts.

The dryer sheet that’s supposed to make us soft and static-free is loathsome. The odor permeates my every fiber, lingers for days. I’d puke if I had a mouth, but all I have are buttonholes. 

I wish we were at home, where the woman with the brown, callused hands pinned us on a clothesline. I love dancing in the wind, feeling the warmth of the sun. When we’re dry, the Brown-Skinned woman takes us down, smoothes us with those same strong hands, and carefully folds us. The others get put away as they are, but she’d carefully iron me. She understands my value. I wish she lived with us, but she comes in only once a week.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

I want to be back in my closet where I hang next to the pink silk blouse. I love the softness and scent of the blouse. Like the woman who wears her, Miss Pink Silk smells of flowers and spice; it’s a perfume the Pale Woman calls Dolce Vita. Occasionally the Pale Woman would wear me. It was nice, even when her hair tickled my collar. Her skin is soft as the silk blouse. The Brown-Skinned woman does not wear me; she only takes care of me

Plink. Plink. Plink.

Ours was a happy house until those black boxers showed up. I don’t know where they came from; I just know that there was a lot of screaming and door-slamming when the Fair-Haired woman found them. The closet door was ajar and I saw The Pale Woman throw the black shorts in The Guy’s face. She wasn’t pale then; her face was as red as the hearts on the shorts.

Now, no more Dolce Vita. No more hanging around with the pink silk blouse. No more tidy closet in a nice old house. Now we live in a cramped closet in a one-bedroom apartment. No more Brown-Skinned woman to take care of us, to sew my button back on. I hate having a gap right in front so everyone in the world can see how ill-cared for I am. 

When The Guy thinks to wash us, which is seldom, he stuffs us in a duffle bag and hauls us here. Afterward, we’re lucky if we get put away. Some of the time I hang in the closet, un-ironed; other times I hang on the backs of chairs or on doorknobs.  There are a few barbaric times when I lie wadded in a corner of the bedroom or, worse yet, get tangled in the bed sheets. It’s a most humiliating situation for a loyal chambray shirt.

Plink. Plink. Plink. It’s a wonder the button doesn’t melt in this heat.

Finally, the dryer grinds to a halt. Naturally, the jeans land on top of me. I hate being under the jeans, they’re heavy and rough and still somewhat damp. Socks are scattered all over. UGH! The black boxers are wrapped around my right sleeve. I wish I could move my sleeve by myself. I’ll just have to endure; it’s my lot in life. At least the plinking has stopped. I hope The Guy hurries up and gets us; I don’t want any wrinkles to set in me while we wait. Thank goodness it’s quiet now.

Waiting in the dark. Reeking of the dryer sheet, which is between me and the jeans. But not between enough, a bed sheet between us would be about right. Gag! Flopping around in here with it was bad enough, having the dryer sheet on top of me is unspeakable. 

We probably haven’t been waiting forever, it only seems like it. Damn it! I want out of here. Even being shoved into a duffle bag wouldn’t be so bad. Hopefully, The Guy would eventually take us out and throw away that damned dryer sheet.  

The last time I was in a dryer static electricity made the dryer sheet stick to my back. The Guy never noticed. Can you imagine how humiliating it was to be worn around town with that stupid thing stuck to me?

Someone yanks open the dryer door. A moon-like face peeks in. It’s a woman, but it’s not our Pale Woman. When she sees the dryer is full, she slams the door. After a while, the next dryer rumbles to life.

When is The Guy coming back? Doesn’t he realize we’re waiting? And waiting.

After what seems like half of forever, the dryer door is yanked open again. This time it’s a man wearing a black baseball cap from which white hair sticks out. He mutters a curse, hauls us out of the dryer, and dumps us on top of another machine, then stuffs his own wad of wet clothes in, dropping a pair of briefs on the floor in the process. He curses the briefs, as if it was their fault for falling, throws them in the dryer, and starts the machine.

Out here we at least have air, but it’s as noisy as being in the dryer. Coins clatter out of the change machine. Washers and dryers groan and whine. Something thunks and one of the machines starts to rattle. 

A mother with a couple of children comes in; she’s carrying a hamper of laundry so full she can barely see over the top. The kids yelp like puppies. There were no children at our house. I know the Black Boxers were largely responsible, but I can’t help wondering if The Pale Woman would have let The Guy stay home if there had been children.

A blond woman spreads a gray plastic trash bag under the door of one of the dryers before starting to empty it. In seeming defiance, a pair of lavender panties leaps over the bag and drops onto the bare linoleum floor. The woman picks them up, slaps them against her leg, and stuffs them in a hamper.

Everything here, except the machines, is plastic: The beige tops of the folding tables, laundry baskets, blue molded chairs, a forlorn green plastic plant in a woven plastic basket.

A TV attached to a bracket in a corner, up by the ceiling, mumbles and mutters. It’s ignored. Like us.

The Guy we are waiting for does not come.

At last, everyone has gone. A woman with brown hair pinned up behind her head vacuums the floors and runs a rag over the tables where people fold clothes and take them home. Finally, she grabs up the lot of us and dumps us in a cardboard box where a red tee shirt and a dark green sock already wait. This time I’m on top, free of the despised heart shorts. I can still smell the damn dryer sheet.

If The Guy doesn’t hurry, they’ll lock the doors and he won’t be able to get us tonight. And that’s what happens. All but one light in the back goes out. The TV is turned off. One last car flashes its brights through the plate glass windows, then backs away and disappears. Outside the sky is dark as a pair of brand new jeans. Silence at last.

What happened to our person? Why isn’t he here? Will he come tomorrow? How can you forget your laundry? Especially your blue chambray shirt.  I don’t think there were any more briefs left in the drawer, so he needs those saggy shorts. We only get washed when there’s nothing else to wear. I wonder how long that green sock and red tee shirt have been here? What will happen to us if The Guy never comes?

I’ll bet my poor button is still in the bottom of the dyer. 

I almost miss the plinking.