The rhythmic heavy thud of 32 industrial speed queen washing machines vibrating against a cracked lenolum floor was the only sound that made sense to me anymore. I sat on a bolted down fiberglass chair in the corner of the suburban neighborhood laundromat watching the digital countdown on machine number 14 0412.
The fluorescent lights above hummed at a frequency that irritated the back of my teeth. My high-end washer at my apartment had failed catastrophically at 5:00 a.m. A blown water intake valve. The resulting puddle had disrupted my morning schedule by exactly 42 minutes, forcing me into this brightly lit purgatory on a Tuesday night.
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