Issue 11.1 Fall 2015

11.1 cover image

 

 

Machine 8

 

Madeline McCormick

 

 

It’s a normal Monday afternoon and I am sitting in The Coffeehouse in Uptown. I’m sitting with an empty Google Doc on my screen, waiting for inspiration to come to me on what I should compose my creative nonfiction assignment on. It’s assignments like these that make me wonder if I have a boring life or a terrible memory for the events that happen to me. I’ve already begun to get distracted by doodling and sipping on some delicious iced tea, when all of a sudden I notice a familiar mop of sandy, blonde hair with dark rimmed glasses sit down at a nearby table and I am reminded of a story that would be perfectly suited for what I must get done.


My first time doing laundry at Illinois State University was sixteen days into the school year, and as you can probably assume, I am not the biggest fan of doing laundry, so this was not something I looked forward to. After all, I made it sixteen days without doing any laundry. I will admit, I bought a new pair of pants because I ran out. Either way, the time had come and I was faced with the inevitable. So I gathered my things, tropical fresh scented detergent, matching dryer sheets, and my boxy hamper that I had no idea how to transport from Adams 1 to the T level of Watterson. After shuffling around the necessary items for a minute or two, it becomes clear that I must put the detergent in my backpack along with any overflow clothing and my laptop (for Netflix, of course).


I grab my keys, some quarters, and headphones and I begin the journey upwards. Let me just tell you, there is nothing natural about carrying a bin full of your own, barely dirty clothes up stairs. Have you ever noticed how the clothes you’re washing are barely dirty? That tee shirt you wore for 2 hours? Probably fine to wear again. Of course, nobody thinks about how eventually the laundry will need to be done and space in the hamper is valuable real estate, especially if you’re planning on making it more than two weeks before you return to the dreaded laundry room. All you think about is how much easier throwing that tee shirt into the hamper is than folding it back up and putting into the correct drawer. Do we all do this or am I just exceptionally lazy? So here I am climbing a mountain of stairs one, two, three, four, just hoping the elevator won’t be too full, so I’m not overwhelmed with self consciousness that I’m taking up too much space or my hamper has a pair of underwear sticking out somewhere. I know it doesn’t because I’ve already checked 4 times. Okay 5, but I had to be absolutely sure because nobody has ever seen a pair of underwear before. Can you sense me rolling my eyes at my own psychotic tendencies? I am.

 

Before I know it, I’m already getting off the elevator, and I do have to admit I’m a little excited to see this view everyone has spoken so fondly of from the top of the tower. It’s the tallest building between Chicago and St. Louis. If you have a mother anything like mine, you’ve heard this about a thousand times. I wander into the laundry room where I’m greeted by about 30 machines roaring as they do their jobs. I am no expert, which is probably very obvious to the group of girls in the corner that seem to have established some kind of laundry room hierarchy. We all know people like this. Those who like to know what they’re talking about and direct people. I am immediately informed by the Alpha Laundry Girl that I’ll have to wait AT LEAST 20 minutes for a machine since they’re all taken. “There’s no way you’ll get one. Nobody has.” Fine with me. I have Netflix. But of course, I make the decision to take a look around this sweatshop of a room and a discover an open washing machine. Ha! Take that, Laundry Room Queens!

 

Now I have time to kick back, relax and watch Criminal Minds . The hardest part is over, right? Wrong. The beads of sweat begin to form on my forehead and down my back. I can’t tell if it’s because I’m having unnecessary anxiety about needing to guard my clothes with my life, I’ve heard horror stories about people having them stolen straight out of the machine! The sweat could also be from the fact that this room feels similar to the swamp house at the zoo with all of the humidity contained in one, small space. Either way, I am sweaty.

 

Time passes and I find myself clicking ‘next episode.’ My load is almost ready to switch to the dryer. Things are moving along and I am feeling more confident in my laundry skills. But wait. In walks another student, ready to launder her things. Most of her face is covered by a mop of sandy, blonde hair, so all I can see is a pair of dark rimmed glasses, but what truly stands out is how she has each article of clothing individually wrapped in a plastic shopping bag. While my first instinct is to judge this, I am reminded that earlier in this whole process I was self conscious of accidentally displaying my underwear. I focus my attention back onto my screen where the agents are tracking down a serial killer in Florida, but it isn’t long before I am interrupted by the girl with sandy, blonde hair and dark rimmed glasses asking me if machine number 8 is mine. Machine 8 isn’t mine, because at this point my clothes are in the dryer and I am on the home stretch of this process, so I put my headphones back in and return to the crime scene on my screen. Moments later, however, I am disrupted, yet again, but this time by a soggy tank top flying at my head.

 

The girl has taken it upon herself to remove the contents of machine 8 and throw them across the room. Where are the Laundry Room Queens now? Someone must stop her! My mind is racing. Those are not her clothes. Why is she throwing them in my direction? I do not want to be associated with this occurrence. Now there is a pile of wet clothes next to me and the people who have just walked in are shooting confused looks in my direction. If I was having anxiety about this before, you better believe that at this point, I was at in an all out internal panic. Where is the owner of the contents of machine 8? They are going to think I have created this mess. I hear my dryer buzz and my clothes stop spinning. I fly off the table I have decided to use as a chair and pack my fresh clothes into my hamper, throw the detergent in my backpack and fly out of there without even checking if my underwear are on display for the world. They weren’t, by they way. I checked as soon as the elevator doors closed behind me.

 

 

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