The dryer whirled counterclockwise. Is it supposed to spin in that direction? I opened the door and cleaned the lint filter. My throat tickled and my eyes watered as I waved at the billowing dust. I hate cleaning the lint filter. Breathing in discarded fibers from clothes covered with dead skin should be illegal.
I grabbed my basket and filled it with a load of colors. Sliding the over-filled basket to the table, I glanced down at the white tiled floor. It was sticky and covered with fuzz and soap powder.
Wash, rinse, dry, and repeat. This was my weekly song and dance. I wonder if this is what people who can afford to have a washer and dryer in their homes do. I can imagine how exhilarating it would feel to wake up and do laundry at will. There is no traffic to battle. No race to get to the large-capacity washing machine first. No cleaning a lint filter covered with the DNA of random strangers.
“Oh God,” I said with a low guttural breath. I swallowed the salty fluid that had suddenly filled my mouth while pictures of blood-soaked panties and bed linen covered in last night’s fun flashed through my mind. Does not seem to be a fair exchange for being poor.
Do you know the amount of change I had to scrounge up to wash a single load? I remember when it cost less than one dollar to wash and dry. The price to be clean is expensive. I liken it to highway robbery.
“Ugh,” she is staring at me again, Ms. Greedy. A fitting nickname. Staking claim to all the good washers and dryers as if they were meant solely for her personal use. Today I was the victor. I managed to beat her at her own game. With a smirk, I winked at her.
“Think you’re funny, heh,” she said while giving me the evil eye.
“Not at all, but you think you are better than everyone else. Take all the good dryers for yourself. Last I looked, you are just as poor as us common folk.”
“I never said I was better.”
“Then why I gotta fight you every week?”
With measured steps, Ms. Greedy walked slowly towards me and pointed to the window.
“You see that man sitting near the yellow car?’
I squinted and looked out the window to see a hairy man with stained clothes. He was mumbling something to himself.
“Okay,” I muttered.
“He is homeless, and I wash his clothes every week. I am poor too, but I try to help him. You know- give a little of his dignity back. I rush in early because the shelter closes at 1:00 P.M. sharp on Sundays. If he is not back, he will not have dinner for the night and will have to sleep on the street. That is why I take the good dryers.”
“Humph- I guess I could wait to finish my next load,” I said while taking the walk of shame back to the good dryer. I quickly emptied my load of dingy discolored whites. Digging deep in my pockets I produced a crisp dollar bill. With my head hung low I passed it to Ms. Greedy.
“I reckon this could help some.”
Ms. Greedy looked at the dollar bill and accepted it with a nod of approval. We quietly rested on the nearest bench, shoulder to shoulder.
“You know how much it costs to be clean? Whew, it is highway robbery. The people who can afford a washer and dryer do not have to worry about homelessness. They do not scrounge for change. Their clothes smell of flowers and fresh linen because they can buy good soap powder.” I said in an informative tone.
Their song and dance is different. I want to be like them. Washing, rinsing, and drying at will and with freedom.
