Ode to the Laundromat

Last month I took a trip to the laundromat.

We own a washer and a dryer, but thanks to our brand-new dachshund puppy, Mr. Chandler Bing, I had rugs to wash (I'm sure you can guess why…) and they were too big for our residential units.

I may be weird, but I really like laundromats. Always have. My first experience came as a kid, when our household units broke down. Later I was a travel worker, washing my clothes once a week in whatever city I found myself in. All you need is a roll of quarters and an empty afternoon. The dryers hum, the washers hiss, and everybody performs one of the most menial tasks in life in a strange collected unity — as indifferent to race and creed as it is to class and presumption.

It turns out we all have dirty socks, and we all need them cleaned, and when you don't have a home washer, or yours breaks down…well. It doesn't matter if you're a multi-millionaire or a drifter with half your worldly possessions thrashing in that turbo tumbler. Just like that, we're all the same again. We share an understanding of purpose and need. Nobody causes trouble in a laundromat, because we all accept and adhere to a certain unspoken code.

In this way, laundromats are like so many of my favorite places: late-night diners, city trains, park benches, and grungy dive bars serving three-dollar beers. You can check your high horse at the door, right along with any necessity to explain yourself.

If you need a hand, just lift a hand! Nobody minds.

It's this appreciation of the spectacularly ordinary that fuels so many of my books, and the Mason Sharpe series in particular. In fact, I opened one Mason book inside a laundromat, with a scene involving somebody who broke that unspoken code, and then faced the consequences.

It's one of the most popular books in the series. If you're curious, check it out right here.​

And because he's too cute not to share, here's the little devil responsible for my laundromat trip in the first place.

I can't be mad at a face so cute!