My Friend Tony was a laundry man,
He wasn’t your average everyday white goods person. He liked the batteries of machines twisting and rolling the peoples unmentionables. The swirling water on the jeans and tights while soapsuds taint the air with a hint of lemon.
The mere action of lining up the rows of golden dollar coins and shapely silver fifty cents meant as much to him as kicking back across three bucket chairs reading the daily paper while chewing on a stick of Spanish sausage. Twenty minute washes with three machines and fifteen minutes watching the tumble dry often meant that the paper, and the sausage was finished leaving him a hefty time to move around and tap a beat out on the floor.
He’d be bored a minute after the papers comics hit the bench, relaxed and thinking all he could do was enjoy the rolling lines of drums clunking and clutching the din of soiled fabrics. The rhythmic beating had his head nodding to the tumult as whites cleaned to ‘perfect white’ or the earthquake as the gears changed direction.
He’d sashay between the chairs, shaking his legs, The colours next to the whites, hands outstretched, lifting feet off the floor. The moonwalk to the pulse, the judder starts a jive.
His favorites were Bob and Betty, a washer and dryer sitting side by side. Both had been working for years and years and both had nice matching yellowing energy stickers. Badges of approval or marriage, Tony wasn’t too sure but they both had a certain beat and if you knew the cycles well you cap tap your shoes out as the metal ground against metal.
Spinning slowly, quickly, slowly, quickly, shake, bit of smoke, slowly again and stop.
He’d fed the metal machines enough coins he should have one of his own by now. But that wasn’t really the point. He couldn’t get this texture of sound anywhere else. The chunky shiny-brushed metal shakes like a jackhammer, the lino below cushioning the metal stops
And the best part was the spin cycle, Tony just couldn’t get enough.
He’d pat the shaker, jump off the chair, two tone slide over the tiles, turn at the end and cross his feet walking and clicking his fingers.
The final dryer spin was melancholic, slow and sad. Funky but low down. And he’d slide slowly into rest, leaning against Betty, eyes downcast and arm over her shoulder as though inviting her to go out on a date. The invisible crowd roaring in his ears as the invisible spot would hold on him then cut out.
And thankfully Tony offers to do my washing,
cos I just can’t stand the noise.
Luckyvegetable
you’ve created such a great character, at home and quirky in his world. I’d like Tony to do my laundry too =)
This is cool. Cool, cool, cool.
xo
Robert Knapman
Lets go straight….to no. 1. In the minds of others there is no ‘normal’. This is a hoot. Nicely created. Quirky to the core .)
yt sumner
more of this please… wanna see more grimey washed goods.
Lisa Jewell
Michael,
If I could have closed my eyes while reading this delightfully descriptive story, I would have….after reading, I did close my eyes and had fleeting visions of Tony and his machines of humming, clanking as he moved across the floor in rhythm,
Excellent, I’d love to read more like this….pretty please :)))
Sheamus D
Really like this Mikey, you’ve created a playful and highly imaginative micro-universe out of what many consider a mundane activity. Lets hear it for laundromats!
Michael Alesich replied
Thanks Sheamus,
It really is a house of noise.