Loaded and ready to go,
Appeared to have a good start,
Then flashed a code E3,
Thus began my woe;
The washer required a $600 part
Plus labor expenses charged hourly.
Instead of wasting my dough,
I took an old go-cart,
Piled in all my dirty laundry,
Like a furious bat,
I raced to the local laundromat,
STAT . . .
I’ll be parked here for a while,
Feeling like I’m in exile,
Until there’s no more unwashed pile.
Space is tight inside Lu’s Launderette. Stacey finds herself standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a man about her age. They’re both folding their shirts, pants, shorts, and undergarments. She starts feeling self-conscious as she knows it’s not her imagination that he’s been surreptitiously eyeing her lace-trimmed thongs and silk teddies. Her face reddens when he catches her eyes.
He smiles and says, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m wondering where you buy your underthongs.”
Stacey suppresses a laugh as she’s never heard such a term before, though they sound just as accurate as panties. She clears her throat to quell the urge to giggle and replies, “At Madam Madison a couple of blocks from here, actually.”
“Excellent. That’ll be my next stop, then. Hey, men wear those crotch covers too. Check this out.” He shows her a pair of black nylon thongs. “They’re comfortable, and as you know, they dry quickly.”
For a minute, Stacey doesn’t know how to respond. Then, she thinks, why not. She remembers her father wearing Speedos, why not thongs indeed?
“By the way, that’s a nice looking bra. Are those from the same place too?”
My father had man boobs, but he didn’t wear a bra, Stacey thinks. She hurriedly stuffs her last articles of clothing into a duffel bag and leaves without an answer.