crazy at king koin laundry
kurt nimmo
“Jack n’ Jill,” the Crazy says.
We are standing around King Koin Laundry. It must be a hundred degrees inside the building. The guy who owns the place doesn’t believe in airconditioning or ceiling fans. He probably lives in the suburbs, maybe owns seven laundromats in the city. He sends in a young guy who is built like a gorilla. It’s his job to watch the machines. He stands in a distant corner and eyes the Crazy. He crosses his large arms and the muscle-taut skin sheens with sweat.
“Jack n’ Jill,” the Crazy repeats, “when up your hill to metch a bog o’ beans... Jack fell down an’ bust his brown an’ Jill stuck her finger is his eye... Ha, ha, ha!”
I’m leaning against the Coke machine. My laundry is in washer number seventeen. I’m waiting for it to go through the spin cycle so I can put it in a dryer and go across the street to the airconditioned bar and drink a beer or two. I watch the Crazy man as he walks in dizzy circles and chants his silly rhyme incessantly. A splayed mop of sweat saturated brown hair is plastered against his forehead and a wool shirt is buttoned tight at his swollen neck. The skin of his face is red. I think that he must be suffocating. He dances around chanting and laughing to himself.
The gorilla-built man walks up behind him and taps him on the shoulder. The Crazy spins around and smiles sheepishly. “Do you have clothes washing in here?” the gorilla-built man asks.
“Do bees shit?” the Crazy retorts.
“What?”
“Shit, bees!”
“You crazy bastard,” the gorilla-built man says. He is upset and sweating profusely. “Get out of here,” he warns, “or I’ll throw you out.”
“No, no, no!” the Crazy screams. “I know Mother Mary an’ she says I can stay! So, ha - low, shit, caca, laaaaa!”
The gorilla-built man frowns. He grabs the Crazy by his shirt and escorts him to the door. The Crazy struggles, but it’s a futile struggle. He is much smaller than the gorilla-built man and his resistance is useless.
“Stay out of here,” the gorilla-built man tells the Crazy, “unless you have clothes to wash - and money.”
The Crazy stands outside on the sidewalk making faces. He sticks out his tongue and rolls his eyes. The gorilla-built man ignores him and retreats to his distant corner to continue his observation of the people washing their clothes. They go about their business and act as if nothing has happened. This is the city and they’ve witnessed weirder scenes. They are anesthetized.
After a few minutes a young black woman comes through the door. She is carrying a big plastic basket of dirty clothes. There are two boys with her and they burst through the door pushing and shoving and laughing raucously. The woman doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about the rudeness of her sons. She drops the basket before a washing machine and frowns. Then she jerks open the washer lid with much animation and begins shoving clothes inside the machine. The kids run around and around taunting and teasing each other. They smile and jerk on each other as their mother shoves clothes in the washer at a brisk pace. The gorilla-built man stares at the kids, but doesn’t say anything. The other customers ignore the kids and go about their business. I lean against the Coke machine waiting on the spin cycle. I think that the owner should install an airconditioner.
The boys break off their game. One of them trudges over to the Coke machine. He examines the selections of soda and digs in his little pocket. He comes up with a few coins, crumpled paper, a segment of string and fuzzy green lint. He slides his money in the machine’s slot and stands there as if expecting a miracle. He glances at me and says, “Hey, you gotta dime?” I fish in my pocket and come up with two nickels. I give the nickels to the kid. He puts the coins in the machine. He doesn’t thank me or look at me again. He makes his selection and walks off with a can of grape soda. I stand there and for some reason I feel like a fool. My clothes spin around in the washer.
Suddenly the door opens. It’s the Crazy. He is carrying an armful of dirty rags, old soiled pants, ripped sheets, grimy discarded clothes probably found in an alley. He marches to the washing machine adjacent the irate black woman and begins tossing his mottled load inside. The woman eyes him with contempt. The Crazy sticks out his tongue at her. “Crazy hunkie,” she mutters.
The gorilla-built man walks over to the Crazy and taps him on the shoulder again. “What d’ya think you’re doing?” he says.
“Warshin’ my stuff,” the Crazy answers.
“This garbage is your stuff?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe you. This is crap you found in a dump. This ain’t your clothes.”
“Is too. Yah, yah. Ummmm, huh.”
The gorilla-built man is very angry. He violently jerks the Crazy away from the machine and throws him out on the street. The Crazy leans against the laundromat glass and sticks his tongue on its dirty surface. Nobody looks at him except me. The gorilla-built man grabs the Crazy’s assortment of discarded fabric from the machine and throws it in a big metal wastebasket. He walks to his corner and observes the people washing. The black woman jams her money in the machine. The boy who asked me for the nickels sits on a bench and sucks at his can of grape soda.
When the spin cycle is finished on my machine I walk over and pull my damp clothes out. I take the clothes to a dryer and throw them inside. When I go to put money in the machine I discover that I’m ten cents short. It’s a hundred degrees in the laundry. I stand there sweating. The boy sucks at his soda. People are going about their business.
I walk out in the street.
The Crazy stands on the pavement. “Jack n’ Jill,” he sings. He twirls around in circles. Traffic moves in the street.
I walk across the street and go inside the bar.
It’s cool in there.
