Slice of life
The laundromat was empty yesterday afternoon, just the owner, a worker and me. It was quieter than the library.
I was reading the Globe and Mail, when I looked up to see a smallish middle-aged man circling the washer.
“Do you know how these things work?” he asked me. “I had a card for the laundry in my apartment building but I lost it.”
“It takes three-fifty here, loonies and quarters,” I explained, then returned to reading something about Canada’s disgraced integrity chief, who had launched a smear campaign against one of her employees. The country’s gone to batshit, I thought, when even Canada’s integrity commissioner has no integrity.
The man shuffled over to my table.
“What time does this place open?”
“Seven.”
“Oh,” he shook his head. “Too early for me. What times does it close?”
“Eight-thirty.”
“Oh,” he sighed. “That’s alright then.
“I have memory problems; I’ll have to write that down. I was hit by a drunk driver walking across the street — over there. Was in a coma for two months. They just let me out of the hospital — but I don’t think I should be out of the hospital.”
“Oh,” I said, sympathetically. “That’s too bad.”
“What time does this place open?”
“Seven.”
“Oh, that’s too early for me. What time does it close.”
“Eight-thirty.”
“That’s alright then. You know I was hit by a drunk driver a while ago — right over there. I was in a coma for two months and I just got out of the hospital.”
“Hmm,” I said. “You should have a pad of paper and a pen. If you write down when it opens and closes, then you can remember.”
“They gave me chits at my apartment but I lost them. I have memory problems, you know. Got hit by a car — right out there.”
I tore off a piece of the newsprint, wrote down the laundromat hours and handed it to him. At least the Globe is good for something. Then I helped him get change from a machine to do his laundry. He didn’t have any laundry with him.
“Thanks, thanks,” he waved, then shuffled out the door.
Slice of life.
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Rose Simpson
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