HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS AND INFLUENCE YOUR WASH

There was a minor riot at the laundromat the other day. I’m not entirely sure how it started, but I know I wasn’t the cause.

The reason I don’t know how it started was because I had to run home and grab more of K.’s laundry. You see, we hadn’t taken care of our dirty clothes in nearly a month, and during the interim, none of our soiled sweaters, jeans, or underwear managed to acquire sentience and walk themselves into the shower. We were kind of hoping this would happen.

So the morning of my trip to the laundromat, K. and I bundled our laundry into three large sacks. Since she had to be at work, and the responsibility of lugging our cleaned clothes home would inevitably fall on me, we only hauled two of them. In an ideal world, our clothes would have been equally divided. Unfortunately, not only is our planet imperfect, but given how much of a rush we were in, most of K’s clothes got left behind in the other sack. Realizing that most of the things we brought were mine, I returned home, wherein I scooped up as many of my girlfriend’s clothes as could possibly fit in my arms and mouth.

Now of course, by the time I had discovered the aforementioned laundry snafu, K. had hopped the train to Manhattan. Luckily, I had befriended a middle-aged woman named Rosa, who claimed to have come from Mexico. Rosa’s English wasn’t great, but my Spanish was equally broken. Ultimately, I used the universal language of wild gesticulation to convince her to watch my stuff while I hurried home.

To my surprise, when I got back to the laundromat, Rosa was not watching my things, although they were exactly where I had left them. Instead, she and some other elderly women, along with others of varying age, appeared to be gathered together in a corner of the facility. Naturally, I made my way over. As I did this, I gradually discerned another party in their midst, with whom they were arguing.

This “other” appeared to be a short, middle-aged woman, clearly of Asian descent. She could have been Vietnamese, or Thai, for all I could tell. Even if her English skills were decent, her words were effectively drowned out by the people confronting her. The small mob vociferously complained that the dryers were not doing their job.

Rosa appeared to be the most vocal complainer. “Money, money, money, money!” she said, albeit with a Spanish accent. “I put more money in, but the clothes no dry!” At one point, she held up a fistful of rolled-up jean leg, as if challenging the laundromat employee to feel how damp it was. Meanwhile, an old Jewish lady, who seemed unable to walk without the aid of a cane, approached the situation less dramatically, but much more subversively. She would turn to the other customers, who wandered over to see what all the hubbub was about, and explained such factoids to them as, “They used to give you ten minutes for every quarter you put in. Now they only give you eight minutes, and the clothes take much longer to dry.”

Funny thing about that old Jewish lady. At one point, after the short Thai or Vietnamese employee told her to refer any complaints to the manager, who would be in later that week, the yenta uttered something that more politically correct souls might consider racist. To quote her verbatim, she said,

“Those Chinese people, boy are they smart (She delivered that last line in a slightly sarcastic tone). It used to cost you a dollar to get forty minutes with these dryers. Now it’s a little more, but they make a fortune because of all the machines they have. You’ve really got to hand it to those Chinese people.”

I don’t know if that lady would have made that comment, had she known I was standing right behind her. But the others in that little conclave, including Rosa, saw me. Her eyes got real wide, and she said, “Pero… eso es un chino (But… he is Chinese),” or words to that effect.

The old yenta, following Rosa’s eyes, wheeled around, then saw me. She started to explain that what she had said wasn’t meant to be offensive. I remember thinking, Yeah, I don’t see how equating greed and questionable business practices with a particular ethnic group could possibly be taken as a racist comment. I mean, I’ve frequented my fair share of laundromats, many of which weren’t owned by Chinese, or even Asian, people. And I’ve been ripped off worse than I was here. Hell, the worst rip off I ever experienced was at Beth Israel hospital, where the goddamn machine ate my dollar and wouldn’t give me my soda, and everyone acted like it wasn’t their responsibility. And we ALL know who Beth Israel hospital is affiliated with...!

But what I ended up doing was smirking at her, then saying, “Oh, I’m not offended. I also think I’m smart.” Rosa and the other women started laughing. The old yenta skulked away, not saying much else. It’s funny, but after that comment, the mood in the place seemed to lighten. People still muttered their disappointment with the quality of the dryers, but no more confrontations with the staff took place. The frustrated would simply pack up their still-damp clothes, wave a cordial good-bye to friends, and exit.

A few hours later, as I labored under the weight of too much clean laundry, I found myself wondering: Was it possible that everyone else had been thinking the same thing as that yenta? Could she have been giving voice to what they themselves wanted to say? If so, did I answer for their targets, either through my words, my smirk, or just my presence? Could it have been possible that, in having had the chance to see the all-too-familiar site of racial tension transpire before their very eyes, albeit from a distance, like watching a television show or movie, and without any hurt feelings or lasting repercussions, they had all managed to achieve some sort of emotional catharsis? In my own way, did I manage to save the day that morning?

Admittedly, such a thought gives me the warm fuzzies all over. Now if only I could get these clothes dry.