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.)
