CONTENT WARNING: Blood, Serious Injury (Mentioned in passing)
 

When I was nineteen, I worked as an attendant in a laundromat in a very poor neighborhood. I dispensed change, cleaned up, did drop laundry, and pressed military uniforms. Although the owner had a chain of stores, he did not treat them all equally. Because the store I worked in was in a poor neighborhood, even though it was very busy (and therefore profitable), the owner neglected this particular store. There was no air conditioning, and in the summer, the indoor temperature reached 120 F (48.9 C), a third of the machines were broken, and the place was generally a dump.

However, because it was a military town with many soldiers and wives of soldiers willing to work for minimum wage (at best), employees had little choice; the job market there was chronically depressed.

Then, the paycheck I was depending on bounced (four days after my employer bought a new boat).

Two days later, I was given my pay, but the damage was already done. Because I had deposited my first check in good faith and then paid my bills, my checks bounced. Everything from my rent to my gas, water, and electric bills was returned with fees. My employer’s bad check cost me over 400 dollars — 400 dollars I could not afford.

I had been making an attempt to be fiscally responsible and had not accepted any of the crazy high-interest credit cards being offered to young people in the 1980s, but under the circumstances, I took a card from the pile of junk mail and got a cash advance to cover the fees my employer had saddled me with. As a young person with a very low income, it took me a long time to pay that card off.

Of course, I couldn’t quit right away; I had too many bills and Lawton, Oklahoma has a terrible job market. In the end, I moved to New Mexico to get away from the minimum wage economy.

On my last night on the job, someone was stabbed at my laundromat. I vividly remember my employer chiding me not to leave until I cleaned the blood off the sidewalk.

I heard from friends over the years that he continued to bounce payroll checks.

Today, my former employer sits on the City Council.

I am at the laundromat waiting for my clothing in the washer when a man comes in. He looks around at the washers — all empty except for the two that have my clothes in them — and then at me.

Customer: “Do these work?”

Me: “Yeah, I think so. I don’t see any signs saying they don’t.”

Customer: “Oh. Okay.”

He then decides to open one of my washers — which is still running — and starts to unload my wet, soapy clothing and drop it on the floor, a few pieces at a time.

Me: “Excuse me. That’s mine.”

Customer: “Oh.”

He looks from his handful to the open washer.

Customer: “I need to wash my clothes, too.

I grab my clothes and start putting them back in the washer.

Me: “Pick one that isn’t in use.”

Customer: “But, this one is already going?”

Me: “Because I paid for it.”

I gesture to all the unused washers.

Me: “The ones with the lid up are available.”

Customer: “Oh. Right.”

Instead of doing his laundry, the man turned around, grabbed his bag of clothes, and left. I’m not sure why the concept of a laundromat burned his brain like that, but I didn’t see him come back, either.

I used to live in an apartment in San Francisco’s Haight Street district. While the area used to be known for Hippies and Flower Power, over the years, Flower Power wilted, and it became known for drug users and unmedicated homeless people with mental health issues, and it took on a generally “scuzzy” feeling. 

I would take my laundry to a laundromat about three blocks from my apartment. The place was not the prettiest, but I didn’t mind as there were a lot of machines and it was my me time. I would get a snack, and I admit I often did my laundry a little stoned.  

While people in the neighborhood used the place, a lot of the patrons were clearly homeless, and some of them were also clearly a few quarters short of a buck. 

One day, I was doing my laundry, and I noticed that everyone was staring at me and giving me space. I was not sure what was going on as I was no different than other weeks, wearing my Unabomber Chic outfit of leggings, a black hoodie, and large sunglasses. 

I loaded up my clothes and waited, and people kept looking at me out of the corner of their eyes. Someone moved when I sat next to them. I was so confused but still minding my own business.

About twenty minutes into my wash, a guy with a puppy came in and it came running up to me. I petted it and then noticed that I seemed to have blood all over my hands. I freaked out, thinking I had cut myself or something, but nope, I seemed fine, so I tried to get it off, I admit using a dirty sock to clean my hands. I then took a second to do that scratch-your-nose thing where you run your finger under your nose and discovered my hand covered in blood.

Yep, my nose was the thing bleeding. It then hit me that I had been scratching my nose that way the whole walk over and while washing, meaning my face was covered in blood and I’d had no idea. Pair that with the black clothes, the glassy eyes from the edible I’d taken, the “random” laughing caused by my YouTube video playing over the earbuds under my hair, and I was giving off clear “I am a crazy serial killer” vibes to people.

Part of me felt bad for scaring people, but at the same time, it is not often that a woman with G-sized boobs can go and wash all her undies and not have a single guy make a snide remark.

I’m working in a laundromat.

Customer: “My clothes aren’t dry!”

Me: “How much clothing did you put in the dryer, and how long did you put them in for?”

Customer: “What’s that got to do with it? I just put in the quarter and they’re still wet!”

I go over to his machine and see that the dryer is at capacity. 

Me: “Sir, one quarter gives six minutes of time on this dryer.”

I point to the multiple signs that say as much.

Customer: “What’s that got to do with anything?! I put in my quarter, and my clothes are still wet!” 

Me: “Your clothes will need longer than six minutes to get dry.”

Customer: “Why?”

Me: “Sir, there is no way a dryer can dry your clothes in six minutes without melting them or setting them on fire.”

I’m working in a laundromat. A middle-aged couple comes in with a large blanket. I watch the wife load the blanket into a dryer, and then the husband comes to the counter. 

Husband: “I want to wash my blanket, but I’m not sure how to do it.” 

Since the wife has put the blanket in the dryer, I assume they are just drying it (not an uncommon thing to do), so I double-check and ask: 

Me: “Did you mean wash and dry the blanket?” 

Husband: “Yes.”

Me: “You’ve got the blanket in a dryer. You’ll have to move it to a washing machine to wash it.”

Husband: “It is in a washing machine.”

Me: “It’s in a dryer.”

Husband: “My wife has been here once before, so she knows what she’s doing, and she said that it is a washer.”

Me: “No, it’s a dryer. The washers are against the other wall.”

Husband: “You must be mistaken.”

Me: “Since I work here, I’m actually not mistaken.”

Husband: “You’re young and you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Me: “Again, since I work here, I actually do know what I’m talking about, regardless of my age.” 

I finally had to get another customer who’d also come to the counter to confirm what I was saying and point out the washers on the one side of the building.

The man just grumbled and walked off.