At the Wash-a-meteria: A True Story

Back in the distant past, when my daughter was very young (and I was, too!), we lived in a small apartment complex. The machines at the complex washeteria—or wash-a-meteria as my daughter called it--were expensive, so one night after work, I loaded baskets of laundry, detergent, coins, and young Laura into the car and headed to a nearby wash-a-meteria which had more reasonably priced machines. I toiled unloading baskets and keeping Laura close in the process. I scoped out available machines. Wearily, I began to load laundry when a well-meaning sadist—I mean patron--very pointedly directed my attention to the sign bearing the rules of the establishment. The final rule read, “NO CHILDREN.” The well-meaning patron smiled patronizingly. In utter disbelief, I cogitated upon the dilemma for a moment. Then, I whirled like a dervish, ending up in my Wonder Woman outfit. Well, actually, I dug through my laundry, found my Wonder Woman outfit, and donned it over my clothes. Using my magic lasso, I pulled down the offending sign. I changed the affronting rule to read, “All citizens of good will of the universe are welcome to cleanse their clothes in this establishment” and returned the sign to its original place. The other patrons of the wash-a-meteria cheered as I wrapped the well-meaning patron in my lasso and shoved the person out the door. As it turns out, I had packed some books to read to Laura while the laundry laundered. We all sat around taking turns reading aloud about Marvin K. Mooney and how he went as the machines spun and shook . . .

Wouldn’t it be nice? But no, here is what really happened.

. . .The final rule read, “NO CHILDREN.” The well-meaning patron smiled patronizingly. In utter disbelief, I conjured the spirit of Huey Long. (We still lived in Louisiana at the time.) Huey smiled his broad, welcoming smile and put his arm around the well-meaning patron. Huey reminded the well-meaning patron that he believed in every man a king and a chicken in every pot. The well-meaning patron was a little confused as to what royalty and chickens had to do with laundry until Huey explained, putting his other arm around me in the process. Every poor working man—or woman, in this case—not only deserves but has a right to a chicken for supper and clean clothes to wear while cooking the chicken. How can this lady possibly go home and cook her chicken for her family if she cannot wash her laundry first. (See my blog “The Wash-a-meteria: Coming Clean andEating, Too!” for the connection between washing clothes and eating.) By this time, the well-meaning patron was utterly confused and ran screaming into the darkness . . .

Now wouldn’t that be a hoot? The spirit of good old Huey Long saving the night? But no, here is the real true end of the story.

. . .The final rule read, “NO CHILDREN.” The well-meaning patron smiled patronizingly. In utter disbelief, I began the reverse of the process. Under the gloating patron’s watchful eye, a truly well-meaning patron helped me re-load my car. While the gloating patron focused on the parade of laundry baskets leaving the building, Laura tied the patron’s shoe laces together. As we drove home, I imagined the patron’s best intentions falling flat, a nice face plant on the wash-a-meteria floor. On the way home, I bought a lottery ticket and won big. With my winnings, I bought a chain of wash-a-metrias and I haven’t had to pay to do laundry since.

Now, this version is the actual true end of the story. Or is it? (After all, it all comes out in the wash.)

Dwight the Lay Minister's Tale

This entry is an excerpt from my novel, The Graceland Tales, in which a group of people tell stories to pass time on a train trip to Graceland. In medieval times, variations on this tale--where the husband and wife make a bet over who will speak first, with dire (or foolish) results--show up in Middle English lyrics and in Asian folk lore. This updated version is set in contemporary America.

One Saturday afternoon, me and another church member were out witnessing in a neighborhood near our church. We go out on Saturdays because people tend to be at home, not at work, and we figure if we talk to them on Saturday, they’re more likely to come to church the next day. We have an old school bus that comes around and picks people up who need a ride or kids if their parents don’t want to come to church themselves. So we were out. As we came up to this one house, a teenager threw open the front door and ran out, bobbling this yappy little dog. Another teenager was right behind him with a pillow case full of stuff. We heard a woman inside yelling, ‘Stop! You come back here with my dog! I’m calling the police! You better bring my Norma back right now!’ Now, I’m not the biggest guy but I was able to trip up the kid with the dog. He fell and dropped the dog. The dog skittered back into the house. The kid rolled a few times and found his feet and ran away. My partner tried to stop the other kid, but he got away, too.

Since the door was open, we stepped right inside. The woman—she was old--had been in one of those chairs that lifts you up when you can’t get up by yourself, and she had just come to standing and started hobbling towards the door. ‘Call the police!’ she yelled at us, so we did. Her husband was sitting in another lifting recliner chair but had not budged. The little dog jumped into his lap. We saw the old man reach over to a side table, pick up a cookie, and start munching, feeding tidbits to the dog. While we waited for the police to show up, the old lady told us this story.

She and her husband had been married for sixty-nine years. Sixty-nine. They didn’t have any kids, just the dog, so the dog, Norma, was pretty special. They were in good enough health that they could still stay in their house by themselves, but they depended on programs like Meals on Wheels or on friends or neighbors to bring them food. They weren’t members of a church, so I knew we could minister to them. That morning, a neighbor brought over some lunch for them—some mac and cheese with wienies in it. They ate their lunch, but the neighbor had put in three chocolate cherry almond cookies—the old folks’ favorite--although the neighbor knew Norma was not supposed to have chocolate. It’s not good for dogs, you know—can kill them. The old lady and the old man each ate one cookie, but for some reason, instead of splitting the third cookie in half and sharing, they made a bet that whoever spoke the first word would not get the extra cookie. They were sitting in their recliners, watching some Saturday afternoon show on the TV—Lawrence Welk or some music show--when someone knocked at the door. Neither one of them said anything because of their bet and the knock came again. Again, neither one spoke. They both wanted that cookie. When they didn’t hear another knock, they assumed whoever was there went away. Instead, a few minutes later, they heard noises at the back of the house. Two thieves had come in the kitchen since the back door was unlocked. The couple heard the intruders ruffling through stuff in their bedroom, but neither one of the old people was quick on their feet and neither one wanted to say anything lose the bet and the cookie, so they just sat and didn’t say anything. The little dog kept yapping the whole time the robbers were there but that didn’t bother those crooks. They didn’t stay long. When they came from the back of the house, they saw the old couple. One nudged the other and said, ‘These old people must be deaf since they didn’t answer the front door and they’re not yelling at us.’ One of the burglars grabbed the dog from the old woman’s lap as they headed out the front door. That’s when the old woman started squawking and pressed the button to raise her chair, but by the time she could get up, the thieves were out the door and we showed up.

She finished her story and turned to the old man. ‘And you!’ she spluttered. ‘You just sat there and let them take our precious Norma! Shame on you!’ ‘Yeah, but that cookie sure was good!’ said the old man as the dog licked the old man’s lips.