The Laundromat
The "assignment" for last night's meeting of the writing group was "laundromats."
Anne actually liked going to the laundromat. Partly it was because she always set it aside as a time fopr reading something amusing -- something like Pinter or poetry instead of dense grad school texts. And partly it was because she enjoyed the smell of hot and clean and bleach all mixed together. But mostly it was because she enjoyed people-watching without interaction, and in the early 1970s, a laundromat was the perfect venue for that hobby.
This Tuesday afternoon's visit was overdue. She packed two tubs tightly with tee shirts, cut-offs, underwear and aging linens; she shoved the coin trays home; and then she settled onto the cracked red plastic cushion of a chair beside the steamy window. Her book today was "The Bell Jar" and she enjoyed it for a while before glancing around to see what sorts of people might divert her during this capsule venture into the real world.
A middle aged woman with long hair and long face was staring at her. More precisely, the woman was staring at her book. Anne quickly lowered her eyes in defense against the woman's gaze, but she could tell it was already too late: The woman was approaching.
"I went to school with her," the woman said, motioning toward the book. "At Smith."
For just a moment, confusion jostled against Anne's annoyance. This woman thought she had gone to school with Esther, a fictional character? Just as the woman sat down, Anne realized she was talking about the author, Sylvia Plath.
"I envy her," the woman continued, almost as though Anne had offered some encouragement. "At least she died with all her stuff." She gave Anne the unwanted intimacy of her name, and without pause continued to disgorge her story in a purge both of them were helpless to restrain. Charlotte Peterson said she had tuaght in the University's English Department until three years earlier, when a deluge of depresison had overwhelmed her, and her brother committed her to a mental hospital.
"They took my Shakespeare," she said urgently, her grey eyes pleading for comprehension or release. "It was the electric shock. They said my memory would come back, but my Shakespeare never made it back. It never came back." Anne looked at her, saying nothing.
Charlotte Peterson got up and moved away, mumbling unimaginatively: "At least she died with all of her stuff."
Anne closed her book and laid it on the chair the intrusive woman had vacated. Then she turned her thoughts to tomorrow morning's psychology class. She moved her clothes to a dryer.
Anne actually liked going to the laundromat. Partly it was because she always set it aside as a time fopr reading something amusing -- something like Pinter or poetry instead of dense grad school texts. And partly it was because she enjoyed the smell of hot and clean and bleach all mixed together. But mostly it was because she enjoyed people-watching without interaction, and in the early 1970s, a laundromat was the perfect venue for that hobby.
This Tuesday afternoon's visit was overdue. She packed two tubs tightly with tee shirts, cut-offs, underwear and aging linens; she shoved the coin trays home; and then she settled onto the cracked red plastic cushion of a chair beside the steamy window. Her book today was "The Bell Jar" and she enjoyed it for a while before glancing around to see what sorts of people might divert her during this capsule venture into the real world.
A middle aged woman with long hair and long face was staring at her. More precisely, the woman was staring at her book. Anne quickly lowered her eyes in defense against the woman's gaze, but she could tell it was already too late: The woman was approaching.
"I went to school with her," the woman said, motioning toward the book. "At Smith."
For just a moment, confusion jostled against Anne's annoyance. This woman thought she had gone to school with Esther, a fictional character? Just as the woman sat down, Anne realized she was talking about the author, Sylvia Plath.
"I envy her," the woman continued, almost as though Anne had offered some encouragement. "At least she died with all her stuff." She gave Anne the unwanted intimacy of her name, and without pause continued to disgorge her story in a purge both of them were helpless to restrain. Charlotte Peterson said she had tuaght in the University's English Department until three years earlier, when a deluge of depresison had overwhelmed her, and her brother committed her to a mental hospital.
"They took my Shakespeare," she said urgently, her grey eyes pleading for comprehension or release. "It was the electric shock. They said my memory would come back, but my Shakespeare never made it back. It never came back." Anne looked at her, saying nothing.
Charlotte Peterson got up and moved away, mumbling unimaginatively: "At least she died with all of her stuff."
Anne closed her book and laid it on the chair the intrusive woman had vacated. Then she turned her thoughts to tomorrow morning's psychology class. She moved her clothes to a dryer.