Laundromat
Admiral Biscuit
As I gathered the second bag of clothes for my bi-weekly laundromat pilgrimage, I thought about how lucky the pony who lived down the hall from me was. She almost never wore clothes. I’d occasionally see her in a hoodie on chilly mornings, but that was usually gone by noon—at that rate of clothes-wearing, she might not have to do laundry but once a month, if even that often.
She didn’t have to contend with carrying a pocketful of quarters to the laundromat, spending fifteen or twenty dollars to wash clothes, and then there was the time factor, as well. Two hours of my day, gone. I’d tried bringing something to do, but usually got distracted by Facebook or something else on the internet.
Maybe if I had my laptop, I could write an essay or something, but there wasn’t anywhere to put it. The laundromat had uncomfortable chairs, but no desks. Just the folding tables, which were too low.
Sometimes I’d go and get something to eat while my clothes were in the dryer. That way I could at least get something done.
One last check: two Ikea bags full of dirty clothes, the laundry soap in one of them. All the leftover quarters from last trip, and cash for the bill changer. Some day I was going to have exactly the right amount and come back to the apartment with no quarters jingling in my pockets.
I could call an Uber but it was a nice enough day to wait at the bus stop and save a few bucks.
•••
I was midway through a Bored Panda article about things in the United States that confuse Europeans when my pony neighbor showed up, a stack of laundry balanced across her back. Several hoodies, towels, and a blanket.
It hadn’t occurred to me that she would have had towels, although in hindsight they were obvious. How else would she dry off, shake herself like a dog?
Blankets should have been obvious, as well.
She hesitated at the door, her ears flicking back and forth. She stepped back, looked up at the sign over the door, then pushed forward, the sound of her hoofsteps changing as she went from the concrete sidewalk to the rubber mat just inside the door and then the industrial tile floor. The floor had grit embedded in it to prevent slippage—a smart thing for a laundromat to have.
She apparently didn’t know which machines were which, and I thought about offering to help. I probably should have, but she located the front-loading washing machines before I could get out of my seat.
The digital displays told how much money they cost to use. Before even loading it, she went over to the coin changer and started feeding money in until she had enough quarters.
She’d just started to load her laundry into one of the washing machines when the attendant noticed her. “No horse blankets in the machines!” He pointed to a sign that had the laundry rules on it.
I saw her tense. I turned off my phone, then turned it on again, wondering if I should film what might be a laundromat confrontation.
Instead, she just put her head down and slammed the door of the washing machine shut, sans blanket.
•••
She was walking over to the soap dispenser to buy a box of soap flakes, and she wasn’t tall enough to reach it. Not with the chairs in the way.
She put a forehoof on one of them, looked over at the counter and then back at me, and I decided I ought to be a decent human.
“Could you—” she began, but I shook my head.
“Use mine.” I grabbed the bottle out of my Ikea bag. “Unless you don’t like this brand.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded, and walked over to her washing machine to pour it in. I noticed that her nostrils flared when I spun the measuring cap off, so I held it down where she could sniff at the bottle. I preferred scent-free soap, although it might not have been as scent-free to her.
“You live down the hall from me, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Mountain Meadow.”
I told her my name, and she turned her head to look at my washing machine, where my comforter was currently swirling against the window.
“I don’t know what makes my blanket so special,” she said. “Why yours is okay but mine isn’t. I got mine at Target and it didn’t say it was a horse blanket, it says it’s washable in a machine.” She lifted the corner of the blanket with her mouth to reveal the tag.
I had a few ideas why they didn’t want horse blankets washed, but I decided not to say them. Besides, she was right; this was a human blanket. And she wasn’t really a horse, either.
I looked back over at the counter, where the clerk had gone back to whatever it was he did when he wasn’t yelling at ponies. He’ll probably notice if it goes missing. “How often do you do laundry?”
“Once a month, maybe.”
Lucky.
“I’ll have to find a different laundromat.”
“No, this one is the closest and it’s convenient, since the bus stops just at the end of the block. Tomorrow, I’ll bring your blanket in and wash it, he won’t say anything if it’s a person carrying it, I bet. And from then on, I can do your laundry when I do mine, just so you won’t have any conflicts.”
“Really?”
I nodded.
“Won’t you get in trouble for breaking the rules?”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.” I poured the detergent into the machine, and pointed to the coin slot. “You want to put the quarters in, or do you want me to do it?”
•••
We spent the rest of the laundry time chatting and becoming friends, and the very next day I began my side gig of washing forbidden laundry for ponies.
