SPIN CYCLED

Tara yawned heavily as she opened the laundromat door, greeted by a tangible wall of acrid aromatics, what she hoped was just stale detergent and not a serious mold problem. This laundromat was a relic of a community, not exactly her own. A fair walk from her apartment, this laundromat, lovingly named Laundr-O-mat, was the only one of its kind for miles, that still used coin-operated machines. Tara felt much more at home with the grind of coins rubbing together in her hand as she loaded her clothes into the top-spin washer, the growing trend of digitized prepaid cards and nonsensical rates for the same wash and dry cycles seemed so unnecessary to her.

The extra cardio is good for me anyway, she thought as she poured the last of her detergent on what was mostly work uniforms, setting the cycle to heavy-duty. She walked to her favorite bench, an old wooden thing, smoothed from use more than the care of its craft, the faded walnut complemented by the yellowing linoleum tiles beneath it. Tara took her usual seat, zoning out to the tune of the humming machines. Tara’s momentary peace was shattered by a loud phone conversation from the next row of washers, normally Tara welcomed the feeling of being immersed in the world around her, but the migraine that had persisted throughout the last thirteen days of back-to-back shifts had taken a larger toll than she realized. Tara woke in a sour mood after realizing her first and only day off had to be spent doing laundry, she yearned for her bed but knew the afternoon nap would be all the sweeter with fresh sheets.

Minutes passed like hours. Tara rubbed the sleep she had not yet had from her eyes. The blaring of her washer’s timer alarm shook her from the precipice of sleep, the laundromat was safe enough, but nowhere was that safe. Tara hoisted the sluiced amalgam of branded collars and slacks from washer to dryer. She hesitated before closing the door, her hand operating on muscle memory to pull open the lint trap, revealing a hand-towel sized rug of multicolored lint.

“I am clearly the only person who clears these,” Tara said, unable to hold back her disdain, “it’s a god damned fire hazard.” She looked at the wall of dryers. Stop doing work that you aren’t paid for. Tara slumped back onto the bench; her dryer tumbled on with a rattle.

“Excuse me young miss,” said the stranger, appearing from nowhere, “I seem to be a few quarters short of drying my jacket, is there any chance you can help an old man?” The stranger was older, sporting a salt and pepper grease mop, which flowed over his button up shirt, framing the neat and evenly drawn turquoise bolo tie, he seemed a figure out of place and time.

“Sure Old-Timer,” Tara said with a weak smile, realizing this kindness was costing her the quick bus ride home. Cardio she thought as she peeked into the dryer and pushed in the last of her quarters, the “jacket” appeared as a lump of matted carpet texture, squelching as it began to tumble.

“Thank you kindly, miss.” His grin was a mix of gold-capped and missing teeth. “You’ll find that one good turn begets another, much like the spin of this dryer” the old man pontificated, “good things are around the bend, I’m sure.” He intoned, as he walked to the opposite corner.

“Thanks, I guess?” Tara said, returning to her bench. An extended blink was interrupted by her cell’s chime, the jingling tune of the funerary march. “Shit, Work? There’s no way.”

“Hello?” Tara answered, as she walked to the other side of the laundromat.

“Hey, you’re coming in today.” said Jen, Tara’s Boss.

“Hi to you too Jen,” Tara said, forcing a smile while she spoke, “Todays my day off, I’m doing laundry.” Tara tried to bleed sympathy from a well long run dry. “I’ve worked every day this week” Tara nearly cried out “Is there no one else —”

“You’re going to need to pull your weight here Tara,” Jen cut her off.

Tara thought she could smell toast. “Jen I’m at the laundromat, washing my uniforms, it’s going to take me hours to get home, there’s no way I’ll make it in time.” Tara pleaded, with unrequited reasonability.

“Your poor time management aside, Lulu is out sick, and Emma needed the day off, so you’re in.” Jen said, once again failing to form the statement into a question.

Tara took a breath in and again tasted toast. Was this it? Had Jen finally inspired a stroke? The taste was too tangible to be the misfiring of sensory synapses, Tara turned to see where once there was a stack of dryers, there was now a bonfire. Shit. Lint trap.

“Oh God, Fire!” screamed Tara “My uniforms! My Sheets!”

“Tara, I wasn’t born yesterday,” Jen droned, disinterested “surely you can come up with a better excuse than that.”

In that moment Tara snapped, the world went quiet, exhausted, and overwhelmed, this was the final straw. The sparking of the threads holding her in place ignited, this bridge she expended so much of herself to cultivate, curled like hair in the dryer’s sputtering inferno.

“No, you sociopath, an actual fire!” Tara seethed through gritted teeth into the receiver, “All you had to do was show a single moment of understanding, just once, but you just aren’t capable of that are you?” Tara coughed, making her way toward the door. “Consider this my retroactive two weeks' notice and if it isn’t obvious returning my uniform is a non-issue. I wish you luck in figuring out how to do your own job yourself!” Tara yelled and hung up.

Tara took her first step out of the shop, feeling light as air as she turned the corner, breathing in a freedom that tasted of melted polyester and sunshine.

Connor Safran is a lifelong admirer and adherent to the written word. He is currently studying creative writing at Full Sail University. When not writing or reading, Connor can be found pursuing alternative narratives by streaming games. Follow him on Twitter or Instagram @DamnFineConnor