Tag Archives: serial killers

Fun at the Laundromat

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First of all, laundromats are not fun. (That title was meant to be ironic.) Unless you are mesmerized by pounds of fabric whirling in suds, you have to make your own fun.

When I was a kid, there was a laundromat near our house called “Astronaut Village.” (I have no idea why. Maybe because the space race was underway at the time. Maybe because it made the laundromat sound sexy. (It wasn’t.) Maybe because the town had an Air Force base that probably did some aeronautical work. But I digress.)

Astronaut Village was high-tech for the time, which is to say that they had a side room with a TV. Moms could park their kids in front of the TV and watch them through a glass window at the same time they watched their clothes spin. (Or the moms could watch the TV if they didn’t mind the possibility that someone would dump their clothes into a rolling basket and swipe their washer or dryer. Or their unmentionables. Dads were never present. But I digress again.) Eventually, we got a washer and dryer of our own, and visits to Astronaut Village ceased.

When I got to college, I found that there were a few washers and dryers in the basement of the dorms. These were the old-fashioned kind. (The kind that took quarters rather than debit cards, I mean. Not the kind that used wringers. How old do you think I am, anyway? But I digress yet again.) When we had to leave the lounge to go put the laundry in the dryer, we called it “turning the laundry” (like you would say “I have to turn the steak” while cooking).

When I moved out of the dorm, I found a laundromat within driving distance, if you define “driving distance” a bit loosely. That laundromat was not as high-tech as Astronaut Village, which is to say there was no TV. I spent my waiting time imagining that the guy from the commercials would come in, offer me $50 for a t-shirt, cut it in half, and demonstrate the comparative superiority of one detergent over another. This never happened.

At last, I got an apartment of my own, and again the laundry machines were in the basement. (I had not, at that point, read enough true crime books to realize that basement laundries in apartment complexes were death traps frequented by serial killers. But I digress some more.)

Now we live in a nice house and have a washer and dryer on the second floor, which is where most of our clothes live. (This arrangement is better than at my friend Beth’s house, which has the washer and dryer on the fourth floor and her bedroom on the first floor. Naturally, since it’s an old, old house, there’s no elevator (or even a dumbwaiter). Her legs are definitely toned. But I digress even more.)

As I mentioned, my husband and I have a washer and dryer, the compact stacked kind (not the full-sized stacked kind). But right now it’s on the fritz, and we lack the funds to get it repaired. We do, however, have the funds to get rolls of quarters, so again it’s the laundromat for us. The one we use is called “At Your Service,” presumably because they will also wash, dry, and fold your clothes for you—for a price that we also can’t afford. And they’re open 24/7. But they have industrial-sized equipment, so you can wash your comforter if you need to. No TV, but now I have an e-reader, so I can amuse myself.

Actually, I plan to open a combination laundromat/bar that would dispense canned beer from a drinks machine right next to the one that reluctantly coughs up small packages of detergent. I’d call the place “Duds and Suds” (or vice-versa). Not as puzzling as “Astronaut Village” or as classy as “At Your Service,” but it’s definitely catchy. And descriptive. I could franchise it. I bet I’d make a million dollars. And finally, at last, people really would have fun at the laundromat.

On the Road With Serial Killers

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While traveling, I’ve encountered some serial killers. Well, two. Sort of. Near misses, anyway.

The first time was kind of meta. My car broke down and a nice woman stopped to give me a ride. “I’m going to take a chance that you’re not a serial killer,” I said as I got in. “Well, I’m going to take a chance that you’re not one either,” she replied. We both figured the odds were against both of us being serial killers and she drove me to where I could call AAA.

The second time was much creepier. I was driving down the highway, alone, on a Sunday night. It wasn’t dark and stormy, which would have been too atmospheric, but it certainly was dark. All of a sudden, my car started sputtering. From all that I’ve read about serial killers in true crime books, I knew that if my car broke down along the roadside at night, I was a sitting duck.

I nursed my car along. I passed exits with plenty of gas stations, but they were all chain operations where I was more likely to find a burrito and a doughnut than a mechanic. They may have also sold fan belts, spark plugs, and washer fluid, too. But I really didn’t know what was wrong with my car other than making funny sounds – the kind you sound dumb trying to demonstrate – and slowing down.

I took an exit.  Lo and behold! A proper gas station appeared, one that was open and wasn’t the burrito-and-doughnut sort. Sometimes I have that kind of luck, like the time a phantom gas station appeared in Arizona when, through a miscalculation, my tank was below E.

A short time later, as I was making pseudo-engine noises to the attendant, a man walked in. He was short and round and wearing rainbow-striped suspenders. Also, he had a beard. Potential serial killer. They look just like regular people, you know. That’s how they lure you in.

After he gassed up, he listened to my attempts at explaining my predicament to the clerk (who was no help at all). “Sounds like you’ve got a broken fill-in-the-blank,” the stranger said. “There’s an auto store just about a mile from here. You could get one there.”

“My car won’t run,” I said sadly.

“I could give you a lift.” There it was, the classic serial killer move – find a woman stranded on the highway and offer her a lift. Of course, the clerk could have described the man with the suspenders, his car, and maybe even his license plate. But then again, maybe not.

“I don’t have any money,” I said. Actually, I had some, though not quite five dollars. And no credit card.

“I think I have an extra fill-in-the-blank at home in my garage,” the gentleman offered. “We could get that.”

“I think I’d be more comfortable waiting here,” I said. That was code for, “If you think I’m getting in your car with you and going to your house, you’re crazier than I think you are.”

“I’ll be right back,” he said and drove off, leaving me alone with the clerk. Who, after all, might have been a serial killer. Could you dump a body into one of those enormous tanks that hold all the gas for the station? I wondered.

Before I could really work up a scenario (or figure out what to do about it), the man with the suspenders returned, which I really hadn’t expected. He installed the fill-in-the-blank and I was on my way. He never even gave me his name, which made me wonder if he had even really existed. I made it home safely, vowing never to travel again alone, or at night, or with less than five dollars in my pocket. Though of course I have, many times since. Shows you how cocky you get when you survive an encounter with a serial killer.