Recently I’ve been doing my laundry in the evenings, and there is always a very old lady playing lottery with scratch off tickets the entire time I’m there. It doesn’t matter which day, or what time, she’s there. She only scratches off one ticket at a time, then leaves the table in the laundromat, goes outside, walks next door to the fake Dairy Mart, buys one more lottery ticket, comes back into the laundromat, sits down at the table and starts scratching again. For God knows how long. She mumbles to herself as she does this, and scratches off every single particle of scratch-offiness that is present on the card.
She has a friend who doesn’t talk to anyone but her. This friend talks approximately 73 grillion miles a minute to Lottery Lady about anyone and everyone who is sick and dying, and oh how terrible it is and did you know what kind of headstone he had and he was buried two weeks ago today and so and so’s sister is in hospice and he has “Altheimer’s” and starts to scream and the bills they have are so expensive did you know that his lungs are filled with this yellow fluid…
The Tremont Laundromat is a never-ending source of surreality. It is almost worth the $2.75 I pay for each load of laundry.
I posted this at Craigslist:
I was at the Tremont Laundromat, which incidentally, didn’t have raw sewage flooding out the front door today, and after I brought my clothes back to my apartment I found it. Yes, it. At first I thought I’d inherited a raggedy piece of pink dryer lint, but upon closer inspection I discovered that it was, in fact, your thong. Not just any thong, though. Your thong. This one is also, apparently, made of cheesecloth. The little bits of fabric that approximate covering are only distinguishable by being slightly wider than the actual thong, and a lesser shade of pink. Also, completely sheer.
Wearing see-through underwear [if one could be said to actually “wear” this item, and if a thong counts as “underwear”] is something of a conundrum. Roland Barthes’s essay Strip-tease may offer some insight into the paradoxical nature of covering that is, in fact, not covering; but I think it is rather obvious that this thong serves as little more than garnish for a carefully orchestrated rapprochement between various and sundry genitalia.
Stealing a page from Duchamp, I have taken to wearing your thong on my head, with the little triangle doohicky acting as a nose-guard. Thankfully this undergarment had been washed before I attempted this experiment. As a nose-warmer, the thong lacks a certain efficacy that I can only attribute to its screen-door like consistency.
Currently, your thong is pinned to my bulletin board, between a picture of my first dog and a political flyer from the Ward 13 Councilman.
In any case, Miss, if you would like me to facilitate the return of this sexually charged undergarment you may send me an email and I am sure that an agreement can be reached.
When I went to get my laundry out of the dryer at the laundromat, raw sewage was floating out of the main doors. And the guy that manages the places what squeegeeing shit down a drain. Bonus.