The Laundry Cycle

The last time I did my laundry, I discovered my life’s purpose. | Fiction

The last time I did my laundry, I discovered my life’s purpose.

New York was in the middle of a heatwave and I was in the middle of another anxiety attack, lugging my dirty clothes down several flights of stairs to the basement of my building. A small pre-war brownstone in the middle of Turtle Bay with twenty-something apartments and a laundry room with one washer, one dryer.

The motion detector flipped on the cold fluorescent light as I heaved my hamper inside. Against the wall was an off white dryer humming away, and next to it was, a semi-rusted washing machine sitting completely still. I dumped my clothes in the chamber, turned a few knobs, and ran it on normal. The second I pressed the start button, I realized I had forgotten to bring laundry detergent. So, I ran back upstairs and looked in the closet, but all I found was an empty jug of Tide. Maybe I should check the laundry room, I thought. So, I ran back downstairs. Again.

Luckily, while I was gone, someone had left a big orange jug on the shelf.

I looked around to make sure no one was around, then snatched the handle. I drizzled some thick blue liquid over my clothes and went upstairs to watch Seinfeld.

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When the credits rolled, I went back down and the washing machine had finished.

The dryer was quiet now, but the problem was, whoever was using it still hadn’t removed their clothes. I assumed it was the same person whose detergent I borrowed, so I didn’t make a big deal out of it. Instead, I closed the lid, went back upstairs, and waited. Forty-five minutes later, and every forty-five minutes after that, I checked the dryer again. Once. Twice. Three times.

But the machine was still full.

I felt a blend of frustration, anxiety, and rage bubbling up inside me. How could anyone be this inconsiderate? They had clogged the cycle. They had disrupted my therapy. They had me held hostage in wet-laundry limbo. I flung open the lid, removed their clothes, and threw them on the floor. I replaced them with my soaking wet clothes and punched “Start.”

About an hour later, I left my apartment to grab them.

On my way to the stairs, I passed two medics in the hallway wheeling a stretcher toward me. For a second, I thought they were headed to Judy’s place because she’s eighty-six years old and you never know. But Judy was alive and well, standing in her doorway with enormous sunglasses over her eyes, leaning forward on her white cane, listening to every little detail I’m “too overstimulated” to appreciate.

Her hand was rested on her chest.

I asked her what happened.

“Heart attack,” she said. Each word hit the ground like a dead bird falling from the sky. She shook her head. “Such a shame,” she went on. “He was only twenty-eight.”

“Heart attack?” I repeated. “Twenty-eight?” I didn’t bother telling Judy that, like my deceased neighbor, I was also twenty-eight.

“Nice kid, too,” she said. She swiped at my arm like a light switch in a dark room. Eventually, her palm found my shoulder. “He used to carry up my groceries when you weren’t here. Very healthy boy, I imagine.”

“When I wasn’t here?” I said under my breath, wondering whether Judy knew I didn’t leave my apartment very often. She cupped her hand around her ear as the medics wheeled away a corpse covered with heavy beige tarp. “How’d they find him?” I asked.

Judy adjusted her sunglasses. “I smelled something strange coming from his apartment.” She winced. “I knocked, but he didn’t answer, so I called 911.”

“Wonder how long he was in there.”

“As far as I can tell,” Judy said. Touching her nose. “Not long.” She turned around, tapped the door frame with a white cane, and hobbled back into her apartment. “God bless you, sweetie.” She closed the door, locking several locks from top to bottom.

And I was alone again.

The hallway was bright and silent as if nothing had happened. The only difference was, grabbing my laundry didn’t seem like the right thing to do anymore. So, I just stood there, processing, until it clicked.

I flew down to the basement.

I scooped up the pile of clothes with both arms.

I ran back up to the lobby, dropping random socks and underwear along the way. I ran as fast as I could. I ran as if bringing my dead neighbor’s clothes to him would bring him back to life. But sadly, I was too late. The ambulance was gone, and I was alone, holding my neighbor’s clothes like they were a soldier injured in battle. I didn’t know where to go from here, so I brought the clothes to my apartment. I dropped them on the carpet. For about an hour, I just stared at them.

Something was off.

I couldn’t understand how it was possible. How, out of all the people living in this building, my next-door neighbor was the one who never grabbed his clothes. Part of me felt like this was insane coincidence. The other part felt like this was meant to happen. Like there was something I was supposed to do. Something beyond my comprehension. I had to know more, but I couldn’t bring myself to sift through a dead stranger’s clothes with my bare hands, even though they were clean.

So, I grabbed a wooden spoon.

I stuck it in the pile.

I pulled out a white T-shirt, clean as the day it was purchased. Calvin Klein. Size medium. I had the same shirt, but then again, so did every other guy my age and stature. I folded it in half twice, and thought about my neighbor. I thought about how he would never experience the warm embrace of a freshly laundered t-shirt ever again. Then I folded the rest of his clothes.

He had several t-shirts. White. Grey. Red. Green. Black tube socks with stripes. Blue jeans. Tan dress pants. His wardrobe was like mine. Nothing special. But still, every garment I folded gave me a better sense of who he was. I thought he seemed like someone I would’ve liked to know, which made me sad. Maybe we could’ve been friends. Maybe I didn’t have to feel so empty all the time. Maybe my loneliness could’ve been a choice.

And that’s when I found the strangest thing of all.

A white button-down shirt.

But this wasn’t your everyday white button-down shirt. I recognized this shirt. This shirt had a light stain on the pocket. Almost invisible to the naked eye, but I could see it clear as day. An orange stain. One that would never come out no matter how many laundry cycles it endured.

I ran out the door.

I flew down the stairs, opened the dryer, and dug through my freshly laundered clothes until I found it—the exact same white-button-down shirt, with the exact same orange stain on the pocket.

I snatched it from the pile.

I brought it upstairs and laid it side by side with its twin. There was only one clear difference between them. The pockets, and stains, were on opposite sides. I held them to the light to be sure I wasn’t imagining things, and noticed a dark rectangle in my neighbor’s shirt pocket. I reached inside. I pulled it out.

It was a business card.

Meaning of Life

Call 555-622-7147

So, I dialed it. And the phone rang twice.

“Meaning of life,” said a woman’s voice. She sounded young and sweet. “This is Lucy.”

I wasn’t ready to respond. I didn’t think anyone would answer.

“You there?”

“...yes!” I said. My shoulders tensed up. “Hello...um...I found your business card. What does it mean?”

“What does what mean, dear?”

I paused. “Um...I don’t know...life, I guess.”

Lucy chuckled. “Nice try—is this Guy Gilbertson? Again?”

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. What do you mean again? That’s what I wanted to say. But the words never left my mouth. Instead, I sat up. I said, “Yes. This is Guy. Sorry, remind me who this is?”

“I told you,” said Lucy. “I’m Lucy—the one who told you the meaning of life. You think you would remember something like that.”

“Well, I don’t,” I said, looking back at the business card. “Are you, like, a life coach or something?”

“Ha!” she scoffed. “Funny, Guy. Tell you what. Come to 8311 Lexington Avenue. I’ll remind you who I am and what I do.”

I hung up, and left my apartment.

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The address brought me to an abandoned laundromat.

It was called “Wash Rinse Repeat!”

Through the window, all I could see was dust and cobwebs and old laundry machines. When I walked through the door, a little bell rang, but the sound was instantly swallowed by a low, mechanical rumble. In the corner was a washing machine in the middle of a cycle.

Sitting in front of it was a beautiful woman.

She had long blue hair. She wore an orange jumpsuit. Her eyes were soft but wide open, fixated on the machine. I thought she could have been a model, but then I thought, models don’t have time to sit and stare at washing machines. This woman, on the other hand, was staring into the round hole, mesmerized by a load of dirty laundry spinning around a soapy black vortex. She was smiling. I thought she had been brainwashed, or maybe she was in love.

“Lucy?” I whispered. The woman didn’t move. “Hello?” I waved. The machine began to slow until it stopped and played out this annoying little melody. Still seated, the woman closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and exhaled through her nose with a low hum. She turned her head slowly, jingling several piercings in her face, and looked me in the eye. “Guy Gilbertson,” she said. Her blue lips twisted into the perfect smile. She held out her hand. “Glad you made it.”

“You’re Lucy,” I said, taking her hand. Her grip was soft.

She nodded. “Who’d you expect?” Her voice was as gentle in person as it was over the phone.

“I don’t understand,” I said, looking around. “You told me you give people the meaning of life. This is a laundromat.”

Lucy giggled, covering her mouth. “Don’t be silly, Guy. You of all people know this isn’t just a laundromat. This is where people find the answer.”

I let out a deep sigh. “Look, I’m not in the mood for riddles. My neighbor died today. Apparently, he did his laundry here from time to time. I thought you might know him, and could tell me more about him. I don’t know his name, but I know his address.”

Lucy shook her head. “Come on, Guy,” she said “I know you have questions. But they’re not about your neighbor’s life. Your questions are about your life.” She grabbed a giant orange jug of laundry detergent and shook it. “Can’t you see? The answer you seek is in here.”

I tilted my head. “The meaning of my life,” I said, “is inside a jug of laundry detergent?”

She nodded and pointed at the washing machine. “That’s right. And the washing machine.”

I laughed. “Okay…and my bathtub and body wash open a wormhole to Jupiter.”

Lucy smirked.

“There’s the Guy I remember,” she said. “The funny Guy.” Her face turned to stone, her gentle voice flattened into a low drone. She held up a clear cup under the spout of the detergent and slowly dispensed the thick blue liquid until the cup was full. “Look,” she growled. “I’m getting a little tired of explaining this to you, Guy Gilbertson. You know this laundry detergent is unlike any other laundry detergent in the universe.” She dumped all the liquid into the machine and poured herself another. “You know what happens when you wash your clothes with this detergent.”

I felt a pit form in my stomach. “You know what?” I said, shaking my head. “Forget it. I never should’ve come here. I think you’re making this all up. I think you’re a fraud. Thanks for nothing.”

I turned around and headed for the door.

“You think I’m a fraud?” Lucy said with a slow laugh. Her voice got deeper. “Well, would a fraud know what happened to you on this day last year?” She reached deep into her pocket and pulled out a foot-long tube wrapped in shiny silver foil. I stopped, let go of the door, and turned back toward the blue-haired woman in the orange jumpsuit.

“How do you know about that?”

“Divine. Detergent.” She used the shiny silver tube to point at the orange jug. “I know everything there is to know about you, Guy Gilbertson. For example, I know that, last year, you were hanging out in the office break room, minding your own business, enjoying your favorite meal.” She pinched the silver foil and pulled it down the tube like the zipper of an extravagant dress. “You were savoring every warm bite of toasted bread, marinara, meat, and mozzarella.” She snapped the tube in half. “Until, out of the blue, your girlfriend burst through the door and broke your heart. ‘I can’t do this anymore, Guy! I don’t love you anymore!’ I believe those were her exact words, no?” Lucy removed the foil completely. Revealing two halves of the same sandwich, a sopping wet meatball sub from Enzo’s Delicatessen.

“Stop it.”

Lucy opened her mouth and took a bite of the sandwich like a great white shark attacking an Italian submarine. “Why should I stop? The story gets better!” Her mouth was full. “You were so blindsided by the breakup, Guy Gilbertson, that you accidentally choked on your meatball sub. Remember? Your face turned red. Your eyes swelled up. You wrapped your hands around your neck and coughed and spit, but no matter how clear it was that you were moments away from choking to death, the so-called ‘love of your life’ just stood there, watching you, doing absolutely nothing to save you.” Lucy burst out laughing. Tiny bits of meat rained on the floor.

“I said stop it!” I buried my face in my hands.

“But then a miracle happened!” Lucy wiped her face with her sleeve. “You fell out of your seat, and when you hit the floor, that giant clump of chewed-up meat paste came shooting out your gullet and splattered all over the pocket of your favorite white button-down shirt.” She exploded with laughter, almost unable to finish the story. “You were never the same, Guy Gilbertson. You couldn’t go back to work. Your boss fired you. And over the next year, you never left your apartment. You spent all day, every day, doing your laundry. Why, Guy? Why!”

My legs felt weak. My stomach was in a knot. “I don’t know!”

Lucy’s laughter devolved into the growl of a rabid dog. “Because the stain wouldn’t come out! No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t get that horrible idea out of your head that, maybe, just maybe, the most important person in your life didn’t love you. Maybe she hated you so much that she didn’t care whether you lived or died.”

My chest got tight.

I fell to my knees.

“She said she didn’t know the Heimlich!”

“Perhaps she didn’t,” Lucy said quietly, bending down to meet my eyes. “But perhaps she did. You can keep telling yourself whatever stories you want to hear, but at the end of the day, does it really matter?” Lucy whispered in my ear, “It doesn’t have to.” She reached out, holding the cup of blue liquid in front of my broken heart.

And everything went black.

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The sun was almost set when I woke up in bed with a bright orange jug of laundry detergent at my feet. Lucy’s business card was taped to the side.

It wasn’t a dream.

My neighbor’s pile of clean laundry was still on the floor, and resting on top of it was a white button-down shirt. I could still see the stain, but for the first time since last year, it didn’t bother me at all. So, I put it on. I stuffed Lucy’s business card in my shirt pocket. I picked up the other white button-down from the floor, and realized I had no idea whose shirt I was wearing, mine or my neighbor’s.

That’s when I remembered my laundry was still in the dryer.

I was on my way out the door when it hit me. In a matter of seconds, I was consumed by a warm blanket of sunshine. This felt like a giant manta ray had wrapped its enormous wings around my weightless body. I was calm. Easy. Spacious. My mind was totally empty, quiet, yet I was completely aware of every little detail of every little particle present in this moment. The weight of the detergent in my hand, pulling against each knuckle. The threads of the button-up around my torso, hugging each skin cell. Every millisecond that came and went. Every molecule that lived and died. All seventy-two steps colliding with the soles of my feet on the way to the basement.

The motion detector flipped on the fluorescent light.

This time the dryer was silent, but the washing machine was making all sorts of noises. Noises that spanned across the entire frequency spectrum, beyond the range of human hearing. Endless layers of whirring, rumbling, and hissing all colliding with one another like a symphony I had never heard before.

So, I listened.

I sat down in front of the washing machine, crossed my legs, and looked through the soapy black vortex. Someone else was in the middle of a laundry cycle of their own. And somehow, I could sense they forgot to add laundry detergent.

An honest mistake.

So, I placed Lucy’s orange jug on the shelf for them.

My body wanted to turn around and go upstairs, but my mind wouldn’t look away from the wet fabrics sloshing around the machine. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, all the subtle nuances that made this laundry cycle special, and different from every other cycle that happened before it, that happen during it, and will happen after it. Never again would there be an identical moment at any point in time, or anywhere in existence. Never again would the laundry spin the same way twice. After a few minutes, the machine slowed down, stopped, and played a gorgeous little melody. All I could do was press my face on the window and sob with pure joy.

Somehow, my neighbor and I had become two parts of the same whole, leaning on each other like the conscious and unconscious minds of a complete human being, like the washing and drying units of a complete laundry room.

My neighbor didn’t die of a heart attack.

What actually happened to him was far more beautiful. Far more complex.

Far beyond comprehension.

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