I like the word “laundromat.” There’s a roundness to the first two syllables leading into the harsh and definite ending. I haven’t been to a laundromat since I was a sophomore in college—which was a long time ago. Phlphty-plus years later, I’m back. This place evokes a strange feeling. I say strange because I am a bit reminiscent due to the sounds and smells, but also because the laundromat is trapped in a time warp. It’s the same physical place, but locked in time at about 1989. A sad, lost episode of Doctor Who.

The oddly out-of-date—but possible hipster retro throwback—Armstrong tile floor. Miniature iron gates protecting the soap, bleach and softeners from being stolen out of the machines. Ms Pac-Man and Final Lap sitting dark and quiet in the back. Industrial, oversized steel washers and dryers. The constant hum of pulsing water and tumbling clothes. The aroma of clean. These would all add up to comfort if not for the Star Wars cantina patrons.

I live very close to a private, over-priced university. I expected more collegiate individuals—like when I was in college, but they’re not here. Mom and Dad must provide them with everything so they dare not need to breathe the same air as a commoner such as myself.

Otherwise, I am here with an interesting sub-culture of America. The women have aged at a high rate of speed. Their bodies come in two forms, either lumpy or stick thin, but equally misshapen with shoulders hunched forward—a visible sign of how tired they are. The men are from a wider swath of the population. Middle-aged men who look like they were still drunk when they dressed this morning. Some are confused and stare at the machines a little too long. The washers only require one decision, hot vs. cold, but these men seem unable to face this test. They wear t-shirts, which are the ever-so-slightest shade of pink. I’m guessing these are the recently divorced ones. Then there are the older gentlemen who seem to have lost their wives early. They are sad and quiet, reading the newspaper as their slacks tumble quietly in the dryer next to the bench.

One guy in the place appears to have bathed and shaved this morning. Medium height, dark hair. His giveaway is the Bluetooth headset implanted in his ear. I would say this marked him as “the jerk,” but he’s not it. He’s cheesy and chipper as he moves from one steel beast to the next, twisting this and checking that and chatting away with his kids as he fixes the machines. He’s the only one in the entire place who makes eye contact and smiles. Turns out it’s because he’s the owner/maintenance guy, and he’s happy taking my money one quarter at a time.

The rest of the patrons are creeping me out. My skin crawls at the idea some of these men are hanging out just to watch me fold my underwear. This moment deserves a loud blood-curdling scream to ease the tension and let them know I’m on the defensive. I emit nothing, though. How can the necessity of clean clothes become this eerie? Why is the maintenance man the only person here around whom I my hair doesn’t stand on end? Why can’t they remember to separate lights and darks?

The women deposited their clothes and ran back to their cars. These creepers must be the reason. I, on the other hand, cannot spend that much time sitting in my car without going somewhere. I also care about getting all of my clothes back, which might be part of my problem. I’ve seen too many movies where someone steals the clothes out of the dryer as they run from the authorities. No major prisons are around the corner, but the idea of someone making off with one of my favorite tees makes me angry. I’ll fold every last piece in front of them all to make sure my “May the Norse be with you” tee gets home safely—and un-pinked.