laundry day

Sunday night. It’s the night that everyone in Manhattan does laundry.

I’ve always felt fortunate that I have never seen someone in the laundry room. Which, now that I see it in writing, is kind of scary, because my laundry room is the perfect backdrop for a gruesome crime scene: flickering lights, low humming in the background, and a mystery room (a door with 4 deadbolts on it – what’s in there? Bodies, that’s what). Nevertheless, I still feel fortunate, because having to wait for a washer/dryer is really annoying.

This Sunday night was different. I went to the “LL” floor and for the first time in over a year, there was another person in the room. She was very tiny. Like a child. But she wasn’t a child because she had a red thong in her hand. And I don’t know any children who wear red thongs. Even in Manhattan. Anyway, I knew then and there that our cycles were off. Our laundry cycles, that is, because she was putting things and thongs in the dryer. And everyone knows the dryer is on a 60 minute cycle while the washer is on a 34 minute cycle. WTF? are industrial use washer/dryers made by the same people who package hot dog and buns in off-ratios, too?

I place my clothes in the washer as she finished placing hers in the dryer. There was no way this was going to work. I watched exactly 34 minutes of “Old School” on TBS and then went to go check on my clothes.

My cycle was done. Hers was still humming away as i knew it would be. What to do?

I did what any college student would do. I took her laundry out and put it in the metal basket. Then, because we live in adult land, I took it a step further and began folding her clothes.

I nervously looked at the elevator light. It was firmly on “6”. If it started to creep downwards, I knew I had approximately 3 minutes to finish folding, put MY stuff in the dryer, and sprint up the back stairs to my room and remain the anonymous Laundry Fairy. I shook out a pair of jeans. HOLY COW she’s tiny! Size 24? Who the hell wears size 24? A CHILD, that’s who. I folded them and place them in the cart. An “I Heart Obama” T shirt. Most likely educated, consensus-building, and a student, as most Liberals who wear their political proclivities in public tend to be. I continued folding. Oberlin College…aha. Maybe that’s where the pot smell always comes from. So far, she was a red thong wearing pot smoking child genius who would have voted for Obama if she were old enough, interning in Manhattan. I pulled out one Mens Boxer shorts. Boxer briefs (nice) but size T for Tiny. They must be a good match. But…only one pair of boxer briefs in this whole pile of laundry? A one night stand ending in a Commando dash back home? Who knows. Heh. This is kind of fun, folding the laundry of a red thong wearing pot smoking child genius who would have voted for Obama if she were old enough, interning in Manhattan, doing Tiny Men.

Oh SHT!! The elevator is going down! 3 minutes and counting! I started folding like a folding maniac. Matching gym socks with knee socks, wadding up her camisoles and throwing them back into the metal basket. It was too late. It was GAME OVER. Like a DVD on rewind, I started putting everything back into the dryer. Hurry hurry hurry!

The door opened just as I slammed the dryer door shut. I casually leaned on it, and smiled what I hoped was a serene smile.

Tiny Person: “WEIRD. My T shirt came out of the dryer perfectly folded.”

Me: “Huh! Hey, I love Obama, too!”