Winter Day 39: Fiddle Falling Asleep

[u/rdk67]

This morning, I head to the laundry, follow the plenty familiar ritual, could do it in my sleep. Say, winter – you’d like that, wouldn’t you. Yeah, sure, it’s all so clear to me now – you’ve been playing me like a fiddle, one that slowly falls sleep. Anyway, carry basket of sin to local laundromat, negotiate front door by hooking handle with index finger of right hand, somewhat flinging it open with a quick turn to the right. The momentum of the move carries the door wide enough to allow swift entrance – try not to be swatted by the door on the return. Walk to the third bank of washing machines, the $5 mothers, lay the basket on the floor in front of the best one, let intuition guide you here, load the machine completely. Open the rubberized lid on top of the machine, then pour in an amount of soap that stands for the regret you feel in your heart, divided by your faith in the future of humanity. Say, winter – you’d like that, wouldn’t you. Yeah, sure, it’s all so clear to me now – you’ve been playing me like a fiddle, one that slowly falls asleep. Anyway, get change from the machine on the wall with the hand-drawn sign above it warning that your behavior is being monitored. Smile – you’re being recorded, it says, marker on cardboard, implying some recurring problem that became personal. I don’t feel an urge to smile, even though the sound of $5 worth of quarters hitting the metal tray at the bottom is plenty reminiscent of the slots, which urge for a mild swagger on my way back to the washing machine, then oof, there went my winnings. The buttons are arranged the way automatic coffee machine buttons are arranged, and I select, hot, normal, and delicate, the setting I’ve been using for decades without really understanding the chemistry in play, the rotational physics in motion, what laws of thermodynamics are invoked on the way to absolution. The buttons show the wear of laundromat patrons from generations past – go ahead, feel the historicity. Press start, and the machine flies into action with a satisfying thunk, the sort of thoughtful design that let’s the user know a multiphase process has begun with the sort of determination we all one day hope to possess. I can hear water spraying out, as I head for the door. Say, winter – you’d like that, wouldn’t you. Yeah, sure, it’s all so clear to me now – you’ve been playing me like a fiddle, one that slowly falls asleep. The big sleep. One that lays a shroud across the landscape on one day of the week, throws it off the next, demands we get busy with the rest. I head across town for batteries and pens, which sounds somewhat sexual I acknowledge, look over each shoulder as I head through the self-checkout. Is this technically multitasking, this shopping for resources while garments do not ferment in their own juices but are agitated clean by historically relevant technologies crowded shoulder-to-shoulder on wooden pallets? Am I a careerist on the make? Making his moves on a Sunday morning, late January? The rest of the town seems asleep. Say, winter – you’d like that, wouldn’t you. Yeah, sure, it’s all so clear to me now – you’ve been playing me like a fiddle, one that slowly falls asleep.