Another Laundry Thing

I love the laundromat. Though I have actually gotten worse at cleaning my clothes. I have lost, for instance, my spray bottle of Shout which I use to erase the grime from my clothes. The whites especially. Most of mine are a bit of, hinting toward another color, like the funked water that pours from gas station pop fountains, a little like lemonade, a little like the water you wanted. 

Tonight I threw everything in the was at normal temperature, poured white powder from a little paper box of Clorox, added some C grade detergent and watched the spinning machine thrash the dirt out of my clothes into puddle colored water. Did some grading while the news played on a flatscreen beside a painting of the nativity. Obama is in town. Will he get to eat at his favorite restaurant, the Valois? NBC news needs to know. If I get tired tomorrow morning I will steel myself with the thought that only a CTA ride away the President is drinking cafeteria coffee or hunting the bacon tray for worthy pieces.

I let my laundry run in the dryer for the full 30 minutes until it is piping hot, just so I can squeeze out a few more grades. When I fold my shirts, I can see that I have sealed the pit stains into my whites. I look to the nativity scene, then back to my clothes. I'll just have to wear sweaters over the white shirts, that's all. And find some other reasonable things to feel good about, nearby things: my socks are hot and stretchy, which I like. And I'll be moving this weekend, which is more work than laundry, but a better payoff afterward.   

Busses and More Busses

To get a new apartment, I had to grab my old receipt. I'm staying with my aunt, and my aunt lives in Old Town and the receipt sits in my dresser drawer in Pilsen. Because he distrusts banks, my landlord (who hates being called my landlord) only takes cash.

The guys at Chase bank love this, they love the absurd wads of bills I have to take out and draw smilies all over the envelop, "Good Luck!!!"

So I get there, puff around the big shell old printer's shop space, see my brephs twirling around under a naked bulb like a boy detective in some noir episode, only I'm not a boy, I'm 27, and too old to be living in heatless and dark spaces, at least if I'm a salary pulling teacher.

After a stout at Skylark and a little grading, it's back north on the Halsted #8. Tonight I'm one of these guys who throws his bike on the front of the bus. Once things start rolling, the seats fill. I'm reading The Sandman comic series. Three yoga women in their thirties are talking about their boyfriends. A man with immaculate hair and nice glasses has it all together. I think about getting my hair under control like that. I feel like the rickety glasses in my coat pocket.

A yoga woman next  to me looks into my comic. I want to go to sleep so bad.