The Laundromat at 2:13 A.M.

Photo by Jason Leung on Unsplash.

At 2:13 in the morning, the laundromat contained seven washing machines, six dryers, one vending machine, and me.

Machine Seven had a handwritten notice taped above its coin slot:

EATS COINS. WORKS IF YOU ASK NICELY.

I chose Machine Six. There are limits to how much diplomacy a person should conduct while carrying a basket of socks.

The laundromat was bright enough to perform minor surgery in, but the street outside had disappeared into rain. Every few seconds, the vending machine made a thoughtful mechanical noise, as if reviewing its finances.

I loaded the washer, added detergent, and discovered that the machine accepted only coins. My wallet contained one transit card, two receipts, and a small metal key whose purpose had been unknown since February.

The change machine stood beside the door. It accepted my five-dollar note, considered the matter, and returned four dollars in coins plus a small plastic token stamped with a cartoon dolphin.

There was no dolphin-operated equipment anywhere in the building.

I kept the token. At that hour, it felt unwise to reject a gift.

Machine Six began its cycle. The vending machine immediately dropped a can of orange soda, although nobody had touched it.

I waited.

Nothing else happened.

The soda sat in the tray with the quiet confidence of an appointment I had forgotten to attend.

Ten minutes later, a man in a yellow raincoat entered carrying a single pillowcase. He inspected every washer, nodded to Machine Seven, and fed it three coins.

“Please,” he said.

Machine Seven started.

He looked at me. “You have to be specific.”

“About what?”

“Your expectations.”

He sat beneath the clock and fell asleep before I could ask a second question.

When my wash finished, I counted twelve socks. I had arrived with eleven.

The additional sock was red, extremely small, and decorated with green dinosaurs. I placed it on the folding table in case its owner appeared. Then I moved everything else into Dryer Three.

Dryer Three accepted my coins and displayed 48 minutes. After four minutes it still displayed 48. After eight minutes it displayed 49.

I pressed the stop button.

The dryer continued.

I asked nicely.

It stopped.

The man in the yellow raincoat remained asleep, but raised one thumb from inside his sleeve.

At 2:47, a woman arrived with no laundry. She walked directly to the folding table, picked up the dinosaur sock, and examined it.

“Not mine,” she said.

She placed a blue striped sock beside it and left.

I now appeared to be running a very small lost-property department.

The vending machine dropped a packet of crackers.

“Thank you,” I said, because the evening had established a pattern.

At 3:06, my clothes were dry enough to be considered optimistic. I folded them, returned the mysterious dolphin token to the change tray, and left the orange soda untouched.

Behind me, Machine Seven completed its cycle with a cheerful electronic melody. The man woke, collected his pillowcase, and paused at the door.

“You forgot a sock,” he said.

“Neither of those is mine.”

He studied the red dinosaurs and the blue stripes.

“They are now.”

He stepped into the rain.

The vending machine made one final financial decision and dropped a second orange soda.

I took both cans and the socks.

There are limits to diplomacy, but apparently not to severance packages.