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anada366
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.* O . . .. ..O .. 366 02 Jun 2001 ) ( ')
.* O O* o o o o o o o ( / )
* ***O O O O O O O O O \( _)|
* O o o.*..o.*..o.*..o. .net "The Cunt At *
* O the Laundry" *
*. o |\ _,,,---,,_ *
* /,`.-'`' -. ;-;;,_ *
* |,4- ) )-,_..;\ ( `'-' by Infernal *
* '---''(_/--' `-'\_) *mE0w* o
*. .......................................*
'Anada is cat-friendly..o*`
Oh, that cunt at the laundry. She got me again. Won't she
understand, ever? Doesn't she have a heart for a man with two jobs and a
place he can barely afford? Does she see my credit card bills and my
student loans when she glares at me under those whore-rouged eyelids,
shaking her dumb head at me through the locked plate glass door, even though
the sign says LAST WASH 9:00 and it's what, Christ, not even 8:30 yet? How
many times can she do this? Oh, that cunt!
You know I don't use words like that. I hate ëem. I do. But
sometimes I get so angry with people when they won't just do their part, do
their part to help each other out. And then they wonder! They wonder why
people are so mean and shrill any more, and they wonder why the man who
fixed their car didn't really fix it and charged them a hundred dollars
more and broke two more pieces while he was in there. They wonder why
everybody's got to walk around like they're sucking a lemon, sourpuss
faces, but then they do it too, and they're at work, and the place isn't
busy so they lock the door and start vacuuming the mats and scooping the
lint out of the lint traps with their gaudy jeweled fingernails and
smirking with their big blood red lips when a poor guy just needs to
wash his skivvies, you know, needs to clean his clothes, and isn't in
the wrong at all.
Take the last time. I went up there at 8:19. I looked on my watch,
and it said it. 8:19. I carried my basket down the street, with my shirts
over top of my underwear so no one would see them, and my bottle of Shur
Valu laundry detergent on top of the shirts, and I walked the four
blocks to the laundry, and I hoisted it up into my one arm and pulled on
the door handle with the other, and NOTHING! It was locked. I looked
in and I saw her look at me out of the corner of her eye, while she was
vacuuming, and she just stood there, vacuuming the same spot over and
over, waiting for me to leave. I saw stacks of quarters on the counter,
lined up, and a bag full of those sack-paper rolls that say $10 QUARTERS
$10 on them. I stood there and frowned at her back, at her pointy
shoulder blades for a while, and then I went home.
I was so mad I was gonna burst! I didn't have a single pair of clean
underwear to wear the next day! And I only have the four work shirts,
because I keep trying to go get more, every time I have time off, but
the bus lines are so screwy that I end up not going because I might end
up stuck on the other side of town and the next bus isn't till six in
the morning, which is how long it'd take me to walk back over here, and
then I'd be in the soup because I'd have to be at work, and I'd have
blisters and heat flashes and monodoxil and gosh knows what else. I'd
prob'ly get mugged!
So I got home that night and I said to myself, I said “think!
There's gotta be a solution here.” So I looked in the phone book under
COIN-OPERATED LAUNDRY and I tried to figure out where the next closest
one was, by using that map in the front of the phone book, only I
couldn't tell because it was such a crappy map and who knew if a space
the size of my fingernail was a half hour's walk or two hours'? I sure
didn't.
So then I sat there on the couch for a few minutes looking at my
basket of clothes, all my dirty, worn underwear and socks and stuff. Then I
had an idea, so I took one pair of socks, and one pair of drawers, and
one of my white shirts, and my black pants, which I coulda prob'ly just
worn dirty but I'd already done that once and they had a spot on them,
some soup or something, and I put them in the bathtub and I turned on
the water, nice and hot. I poured in some Shur Valu laundry soap, only
the bottle was slick because there was some on the handle that leaked
from the last time I used it, so I almost dropped it and ended up
pouring about three cups of laundry soap into the water. Jeez, but that
raised some bubbles up! I reached in and tried to slosh the clothes
around like a washer, and burnt the absolute holy heck out of my hands ñ
I don't mind saying it, I almost cried it hurt so bad! And the whole
time I was so angry at that cunt! That cunt from the laundry! If she'd
been nice I could be sitting on a plastic chair right now, reading a
tore-up copy of Reader's Digest, while a machine did all the
clothes-cleaning for me!
So after I'd done about all the sloshing I could stand, I jumped up,
and had to hop around for a minute because my feet had fell asleep from
crouching on them to slosh the clothes around. Then I ran cold water in
the bathroom sink and ran my hands under it, trying to get the soap off
them and cool them down. My hands was boiled like lobsters! I tell
you! I dried them off on a towel and then washed them again in the cold
water, but they still smelled like Shur Valu laundry soap, and the skin
between my fingers was cracking a little.
So I figured I'd soak the clothes for a while and then rinse them
out, and hang them on the shower curtain rod to dry out. I even dug my old
box fan out of the closet, because I figured I'd blow air on them while
I was sleeping and in the morning they'd be dry. So I was all proud of
myself for taking care of the situation, and I even felt bad for calling
the laundry lady a cunt. I mean, that's a terrible word. My old man
used to say it. That and twat. That's even worse. They sound like the
sounds that bubbles of swamp gas would make. They're about the meanest
words I know, ëcause they're not even really words, they're just ugly
little sound effects, like a fart noise or something squishing. And to
call someone that, well, it's dirty. Referring to anyone's secret parts
like that is just being a pervert, I tell you.
And I mean, she was prob'ly tired, I figured, and had been there all
day. Maybe she wasn't even supposed to be there! Maybe somebody called
in sick and she had to stay, and didn't get dinner and had to be back
the next day! Somebody might have been mad that their drop-off laundry
wasn't done yet and called her a dirty word, and she might have been
really upset and just wanted to go home. I know I felt like that at
work, a lot!
Anyhow, long story short, I fell asleep on the couch thinking about
her, and I had the weirdest dream! My old man was chasing her around in
these tubes, that spun, you know? Like the inside of dryers, only
connected together, like a mouse maze, or like that game with the
marbles and the chute. And he kept yelling “CUNT!” “TWAT!” Only when
he did it, there was this orchestra sting, that little “bap!” they play
like on TV, and this big yellow explosion like on Batman would come up,
and the word would appear in these big zany letters. “CUNT!” “TWAT!”
Like it used to say "BING!" and "BAFF!" and "ZOK!" on Batman. And I
wanted to cover my ears but I couldn't because it was a dream and I
wasn't really there. And I was scared to see what happened when he
caught her.
The trouble was, when I woke up, I'd slept all night! I couldn't
believe it! It was almost seven, and I had to be at work at eight! I
scrambled up off the couch and I ran into the bathroom, and I slipped on
a puddle of Shur Valu laundry soap I must have spilled the night before.
I fell, hands forward, into the tub, and cracked my elbow a good one on the
side. My face almost went into the soapy water! I stood up, pulled my
clothes outÖ I mean to tell you, they were sopping. I drained the water,
ran more, dunked the clothes, tried to slosh all the suds out of them, and
after two or three tubs full I managed to get the worst out. But now they
were still soaked, and they just stunk like Shur Valu laundry soap, and it
was almost 7:30!
I ended up wringing them out the best I could, and putting them on,
cold and totally wet, just figuring my body heat would dry them out quick.
My teeth was chattering before I even left the house, and my thighs got
all raw from the wet fabric swish, swish, swishing against them when I
walked. I was shaking, I was so cold ñ it was springtime, and it was
only about forty degrees out.
And when I got to work, Arn, my boss, was like “are you wearing WET
CLOTHES?” He said it like I was walking around with my thing hanging
out or something. He just stood there and looked at me, shaking, and I
couldn't even say anything, because if I opened my mouth I thought I was
gonna cry, or start trying to tell him about the cunt at the laundry and
the Shur Valu and the weird dream. Finally he just shook his head and
said “freak!” and walked off, and when he did I could hear that little
orchestra bap! and see the word “FREAK!” wobbling in zany black Jello
letters in front of my eyes. My nose hurt from breathing in the smell
of Shur Valu laundry soap, and my skin itched, and my elbow hurt holy
heck, and I just wanted to fall in a hole and die right there and then.
I ended up gettin' sick as heck that day, and the next day I had to
call off ëcause I had a fever and I couldn't quit shaking, so I lost twelve
hours' pay total. I went to the laundry about four that day, though,
and I washed my clothes, sitting there with my arms wrapped around my
belly, shaking, trying not to moan or anything. Man, was I sick. That
cunt was there too, and she kept looking at me, and I could see how much
she thought it was funny, how she remembered glaring at me, batting
those harlot lashes at me while she pretended I wasn't outside trying to
get in when I wasn't doing anything wrong and was totally in my rights
to do some stupid laundry.
And now she did it again. I can't believe that cunt! What nerve!
I'm ñ why, I don't know what I'm going to do. I'm so angry! I could say
it! I am so steamed I could say it out loud! To her face, even!
Cunt! Cunt! Cunty cunting cunt!
You know I don't use words like that. I hate ëem. I do. But
sometimes I get so angry with people when they won't just do their part, do
their part to help each other out. And then they wonder! They wonder why
people are so mean and shrill any more, and why they hurt each other,
and why they sit in parking lots with only one car in ëem, under a full
moon, sit in the shadow of a dumpster with a laundry basket sitting
beside them, with a hammer in the laundry basket, tucked in under the
stained pants and the spotty white work shirts and the dirty skivvies
and the stiff crusty socks, and why they sit there and cry their eyes
out and wait for that damned locked door to open.
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( o.o ) (c) Anada e'zine anada366 by Infernal o
> ^ < o
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