Mid-Cycle

On the second Tuesday of every month, Mr. Ajax went to the local Tilt-A-Wash Laundromat where he did his routine laundry. His apartment complex, Friendly Palms, didn’t have any washer or dryer hook-ups, nor did it have any units for public use. All it had was a lot of palm trees and tacky stone tiles placed almost randomly along a poorly kept complex garden. It was an insult to Mr. Ajax that he had to be seen passing the awful display on his journey to the laundromat or the grocery store or anywhere he chose to make his presence known. He would have to remember to write a letter of complaint to the head office. The scorching letter would be a nice compliment to the nine other letters of complaint he had already sent.

On this particular Tuesday, Mr. Ajax entered the Tilt-A-Wash Laundromat to find a father and son duo he had never seen there in all of the previous Tuesdays he had done his wash. The father was a stocky man in a suit with an average build and a little bit of charcoal hair on the top of his head, but not much. The small, slender son had a bowl-cut hairdo and a worn soccer uniform on, complete with the knee high socks and black shoes with cleats. The father was quietly viewing the sports news that was being broadcast on the medium-sized static-plagued television that the laundromat provided for its customers. A fail safe just in case a customer didn’t fancy in seeing their wash tumble around in dryer or if the customer didn’t enjoy reading. The television wasn’t of the best quality, mostly because the laundromat wasn’t interested in being a cable speakeasy. A person came to wash clothes, not to watch a war unfold in Liberia.

The son was darting around the laundromat like a cheetah with unfinished forms on tax day. Mr. Ajax was quite alarmed at this, as the boy jumping up and down just seemed like a nuisance. If the boy were to make a mess of Mr. Ajax’s clothes or if he were to stop one of Mr. Ajax’s washing machines mid-cycle, it would be an annoyance of massive proportions. The regulars seemed to agree with Mr. Ajax if not with words, then at least with expressions. Mrs. Lundsby, an older woman who looked like a kindergarten knitting teacher, glared at the soccer-playing hoodlum between folding her striped towels and organizing her wool socks.

Mr. Ajax kept an eye on the boy as he put a couple dollars worth into the change machine. The boy had now taken notice of Mr. Ajax and was now just curiously staring. He had stopped his running and the only action prevalent was his blinking. Mr. Ajax didn’t like this change of demeanor at all, as curious kids tend to investigate the subject of their curiosity. He wondered how he would make the boy go away without seeming like a frazzled garbage man who had just scattered trash all over the street. The boy, as predicted, approached Mr. Ajax semi-cautiously.

“Hey! My name is Peter Delgado!” said the boy.

Mr. Ajax said nothing and just kept listening to the glistening change fall into the bottom of the machines.

“Is something wrong with you, mister?” inquired Peter.

“Uhm…,” stammered Mr. Ajax. “I have to tend to my laundry now.”

“Mind if I help? My dad isn’t too keen on me helping him,” said Peter.

“I’m afraid I don’t need any help. Sorry kid,” replied Mr. Ajax.

“My name is Peter. Peter Delgado. I told you that already!” said an anxious Peter.

Mr. Ajax collected his change, picked up his dirty clothes, and went on to the regular washing machine that he used every Tuesday. Peter followed eagerly behind, oblivious to Mr. Ajax’s quiet ignorance to his presence. Mr. Ajax was careful to look at his putrid, stained clothes and not at Peter.

“So how do you sort your laundry, mister…” Peter stopped for a second. “Hey, I never got your name! What’s your name, mister?”

Mr. Ajax stayed silent as he separated his whites and his colors; his heavy clothes (towels and sheets) and his light clothes (button-up shirts and khakis) into small piles on the washing machine next to his. Peter was growing more anxious as the seconds wore on.

“Do you have a wife? Where do you live? Why don’t you let me sort some of those?” questioned Peter as Mr. Ajax stood strong and silent.

“My name is Mr. Ajax. I appreciate your offer of help, but I would also appreciate if you left me alone to wash my own clothes,” said Mr. Ajax, now looking at Peter.

“Can I at least put your clothes in the dryer? That’s my favorite part. Don’t you like to watch the clothes tumble around?” asked Peter, ignoring Mr. Ajax’s wishes.

Peter’s father was still sitting and viewing the courtesy television, almost lifeless in stature. He paid no mind to whatever his son was doing and the sports news program on the television didn’t render any emotion in his face. Mr. Ajax had finished putting his clothes in the washing machine and was now inserting the many coins that are required to operate it. He crossed the Laundromat and picked up a local paper to read. He was looking for a chair when Peter came up to him again.

“Hey, Mr. Ajax, do you want me to keep a watch over your clothes?” asked Peter. “I’ll stop anyone that tries to take ‘em. I’m good at being a lookout.”

Mr. Ajax looked at Peter and then resumed his search for a chair. In his mind, his clothes were fine. This is a small local laundromat and no one came here to steal someone else's clothes. A red, plastic chair made itself known to Mr. Ajax after a small woman elevated herself from it to go and collect her clothes from one of the dryers. He casually walked over to it, sat down, and judged his comfort level. It was a decent chair for sitting. Peter again followed him over to the chair.

“Mr. Ajax, can I pleeeeeeaaaaassse dry your clothes for you? You can just give me the coins and I’ll go and do it myself. I’m real good at it, promise!” cried Peter, starving to do something.

Mr. Ajax opened the newspaper in front of his face intentionally. He contemplated yelling at Peter, but he also didn’t want to cause a scene in his regular Laundromat. He’d have to come back here next month and act normally like he hadn’t screamed at a boy last month. That would not do, not at all. He reached into his pocket and took out some quarters. One of the quarters had the state of Colorado on the back of it. He handed a couple in Peter’s direction and Peter gleefully took them.

“OH! Thank you thank you thaaaaaaaank you, Mr. Ajax!” exclaimed Peter as he went over to Mr. Ajax’s regular washing machine.

Mr. Ajax sat for a little while and read the newspaper. The opinion column was getting to him. He could write better columns than these cheap syntax jockeys. Even one of his annual postcards to family would make better reading material.

After about thirty-five minutes, Mr. Ajax’s wash was done and Peter went to work. Peter quickly took out all of Mr. Ajax’s clothes and put them into one of the dryers on the side of the Laundromat. Mr. Ajax went back to reading his newspaper, as disturbing the boy about his clothes would only lead to the boy talking to him. And that would not be good.

Another ten minutes passed and Mr. Ajax didn’t hear his cycle start. He didn’t see Peter by the dryer either. Peter’s father, still aimlessly watching the television, was sitting in his same spot. Mr. Ajax got up and went over to his dryer only to find that his clothes were all piled in there, the money had been inserted, and the door was shut. No one had pressed the start button. Mr. Ajax went and took the liberty of pressing it and the cycle began to go around. As soon as he pressed the button, he made his way back to the red plastic chair. He didn’t need anyone committing chair-stealing against him tonight.

There was a strange bumping sound coming from Mr. Ajax’s dryer, but by this point no one was really around to hear it. The sound was mixed with the clinking of the buttons of pressed shirts, loose change that someone had neglected to remove from pant pockets, and the thumping of what looked like a mop of human hair against the dryer window. The sound of the dryer itself competed with the thuds from the items inside it and the other dryers that were also running at the same time.

Mr. Ajax went back to reading his paper when he had a sudden weird feeling. He looked at his dryer to see what looked like the bowl-cut of Peter. He instantly went over and stopped the dryer mid-cycle. He opened the door and inside he found his wet clothes and an unconscious Peter. He looked over at Peter’s zombiefied father, who was still hypnotized by the television. He hadn’t noticed Peter’s disappearance yet. Mr. Ajax stood there a little confused as to what had happened. Mrs. Lundsby was on her way out with a clacking of her high heels. The Laundromat attendant was on break. Mr. Ajax sat there and whispered to himself.

“This would make a good letter,” he mumbled.