Laundromat Girls (excerpt from Roxy's Not My Girl by Renee Coloman)

Day after day, my mother had washed and cleaned our lives, but no amount of laundry detergent could wash away what my father had. What killed him in the end.

Laundromat Girls is a short-fiction piece included in my first collection of short stories, Roxy's Not My Girl. Although the work is fiction, there are truths in the way the narrative makes me feel. Relationships can be difficult. Challenging. Lonely. Sometimes, we drown those emotional lows with a friendly guzzle of alcohol. A taste to sedate and forget. Sometimes, we don't want to say goodbye to those we love no matter that the love wasn't reciprocal. Sometimes, it's hard to let go.

Below is an excerpt from the story. I hope it helps bring you closer to those who matter in your life.

I hated everything about the corner laundromat.

When I was child, my mother dragged me along with her every Saturday morning. A ritual that started as far back as I can remember. During those long days, I sat still and watched as my mom methodically shook my grass-stained jeans above the open washing machine. She emptied each pocket, probably thinking a quarter would dribble out. Maybe more if I had skipped lunch that day or if my grandpa had snuck a few extra coins in my pocket for a snack-pack of M&Ms.

“Shhhh. Don’t tell your mother,” Grandpa had said, stuffing fifty cents into my jeans. “I don’t want her to know I have money.”

At the laundromat, I watched my mom and my soiled clothes with a close eye. Sure, I hated going with her every Saturday morning, but I hated the idea even more of losing any forgotten money, including contraband from my sneaky grandpa. 

Most laundry days, nothing dropped out from my mother’s careful shaking. Not even the truth about who we were. Mom made sure to keep our lies solid as bricks. She tried to stack them high, to build a protective wall for our family, but good ol’ dad didn’t like walls. He didn’t like much of anything. Not even me.

After shaking each dirty article of clothing, Mom dropped everything we owned into the swishy-swish mouth of the laundromat machines. She overstuffed two washers, making sure to get our money’s worth. My mother had calculated thirteen quarters exactly to soak and spin our clothes, our bed sheets, our two bath towels, pillowcases and three kitchen rags. To dry the loads, she needed a handful of dimes; money she collected from recycled aluminum cans. Beer cans to be precise. Courtesy of my drunk-ass dad.

Now, while sitting on the metal bench inside the laundromat, drinking from my paper bag and glaring at the parading twins, the smell of bleach assaulted my nose, my throat. A stifling sensation that I remembered from my early years here – all those endless Saturdays that have come around for me once again. This time as a hardened adult, reluctant to uncover my past.

It’s been too easy to visualize my mother’s laundromat routine. Too easy. Although I try to forget with my vodka in hand. Bottle after bottle after bottle. 

My mother stood tall and proud, forcing her slumped shoulders upright as she sprinkled cheap, powdery soap into the overstuffed machines. Always, she added half-a-cup extra. Making double sure to scrub the usual spots and stains on my used, garage-sale clothes. “Bye-bye, dirt,” she said repeatedly, as though wish-washing away our poor life for something new and fresh. A clean start for her soiled family.

Perhaps she should have sprinkled the magical laundry detergent on my drunk-ass dad. Then our lives could have been cleaner. Safer. Free of dirt and grime.

At an early age, I learned all about dirt. I learned to appreciate the kind of dirt that grows big oak trees and blossoming roses, sunflowers and soft, green grass. Dirt where family houses are constructed, tended to and grown into vibrant towns and tasteful communities. Where lives are forever rooted. Where children are often loved.

The dirt around my family never ceased to rot. We couldn’t grow anything but regrets. Sticks with crooked limbs and withered faces from too many poisoned mistakes that I lovingly blamed upon my father – a damaged man with damaging intentions.

“Your dad is tired. That’s all,” my mom often recited, never missing or mussing up her scripted line. “He’s got a lot on his mind, honey. Be a good girl and let him rest.”

Angry at his lack of interest in me, I poked and prodded and jabbed at the ol’ man whenever I could. Whenever I found him asleep behind the wheel of his broken truck. Spittle dripping down, down, down from his cockeyed mouth. On those days, I snuck up to the driver’s side and pressed my young knuckles against his droopy lips. I grinned and imagined a one-punch knockout. “Gotcha, sucker!” I declared, celebrating my fantasy win. “Down in the first round!”

One Saturday afternoon, long after we’d returned home with piles of folded clothes in our cardboard boxes disguised as laundry baskets, my mom caught me fake punching my unconscious dad. My fist aimed for his prickly chin. My voice crowing and taunting. That’s the day my sloshed father turned too sharply into the driveway, missed, and bashed the front end of his truck against the Ficus tree in our neighbor’s front yard. 

The owner, Mrs. Carlington, had ding-donged our doorbell and pointed an accusing finger at my father. I nodded, thanked the old witch and ran outside to investigate. I could smell my dad’s pungent beer breath – sour like day’s old sweat. He was still alive.

Witchy Mrs. Carlington hovered over me and crossed her broom-stick arms. “Something’s gotta be done about that man,” she scolded. Her disapproving eyes lasered into me. Cursing me into feeling bad. Good thing I had a heart made of stone. I didn’t feel a thing for my dearest dad.

“I have a right mind to call the authorities,” the old neighbor said. “But I won’t do that. Not this time. You want to know why?”

I shook my head no, but Mrs. Carlington didn’t notice. She didn’t seem to care that I didn’t care.

“I won’t call the police, because people like you need second chances. And I’m willing to give your father a second chance. Now, then. Fetch you mother and clean up this wreck. I can’t have my lawn looking like a mess.”

“Um, okay,” I said, straightening my shoulders and lifting my head to eyeball the old bat. “My dad is just tired. That’s all. He’s got a lot on his mind. Work has been hard on him these past few days. He just needs to rest.”

Witch-face squinted her eyes at me and scrunched her nose. I returned her gracious behavior with a respectful smile. All lips and no teeth. Never show an old person your teeth. They tend to feel jealous, and that causes more unbearable trouble.

I held my smile and, after a few calculated moments, the widow from next door left me alone. I watched as she crept back into her dark house, where she kept the heavy drapes shut tight. Unless, of course, she decided to spy on me and my family. 

An eye for an eye, I supposed. 

Maybe, next time, my dad will drive right through her window and give Mrs. Carlington front row seats to our shameful behavior.

Left outside with my drunk-ass dad asleep in his smashed truck, I pressed my small fist up to his drooling mouth. “You’re going down, mister. Take that! Wham-bam, a double slam!”

That’s when my mom showed up. She tugged my shoulder and spun me around. The tip of her nose nearly touched mine. “That’s not proper behavior for a young lady, is it?”

Really, mom?

A young lady?

Why couldn’t she see that my dad didn’t deserve us?

*****

“Someday,” my mom whispered, her lips close to the top of my head. Brushing against my hair. “You will understand why your father feels the way he does. He loves you. Very much. He wants you to know that.”

But I didn’t know. Because no one bothered to correct my perception of him. 

My mother, my grandfather, even the neighbor, Mrs. Carlington, wanted me to give my father second chances. Third chances. A hundred chances. In my mind, I had given my dad more latitude than all the stars in the heavens above to love me, but he failed. He insisted on failing, and so did I.

If I would have known, perhaps I could have loved my father, and he, in return, could have loved me, too.

The truth fell upon me the day he died.

His death had come suddenly.

Not from smashing his truck once again into Mrs. Carlington’s beloved front-yard tree.

Not from passing out and choking on his own vomit, either.

No, my dad died when I was still young. When he was too young for such an affliction. 

He left on that particular Saturday morning, when my mother and I washed my soiled sneakers. 

Day after day, my mother had washed and cleaned our lives, but no amount of laundry detergent could wash away what my father had. What killed him in the end.

He lost everything, and he died from it. And drinking cheap cans of beer helped him forget, until there was nothing left to forget. A soul without a body.

Now, I carry that burden. Always remembering. Always regretting everything I missed about my father. Blaming his testicular cancer that stole everything from me. Everything I could have been to my father.

Why was I the last to know? 

And now, the last to whisper goodbye.

Read the full version of Laundromat Girls, along with twelve more short-fiction stories by Renee Coloman, in Roxy's Not My Girl available on Amazon.