The Laundromat may be near the eastern fringe of Broadway and Redondo, but it’s not the actual eastern edge. The Coffeeshop that doubles as a late-night Alcoholics Anonymous meeting place is the actual eastern edge of the neighborhood and the rest of the block to the east of that is the frontier between Broadway and Redondo and Belmont Heights and the Shore. Between the Coffeeshop and the Laundromat there’s a Bar, a dingy bar, a dive bar still despite Broadway and Redondo’s recent cleanup (ongoing for the last ten years), with a mid-century neon sign attached to its roof and a five gallon bucket filled with sand and cigarette butts outside its front door, and next door to that is a drycleaners (there’s another drycleaners on the western fringe of Broadway and Redondo), and finally the parking lot itself in front of the Laundromat, which also hosts visitors to a hair salon, a manicurist, and the Liquor Store.
Inside the Laundromat above the change machine is a sign, written in a sign makers’ cursive, that says, ‘Change Machine for Laundromat Customers’ Use Only.’ But since Broadway and Redondo is surrounded by four-plexes and multi-plexes, each with small laundry rooms in their basements, the neighbors always need quarters. The You-Wash Carwash out on the eastern fringe of the frontier is too far for the locals to go (and it has a warning sign of its own), and the Liquor Store, the hair salons, the bars, the Pub, the used furniture stores, gift shops and restaurants refuse to hand over quarters, though the Liquor Store will make change for a dollar or two, but never more, for recognized regulars, on occasion. For the people of Broadway and Redondo, the Laundromat stands at the center of everything when quarters are what they are looking for. Even if it actually is out on the eastern fringe.
Nobody understands this grim reality of apartments and quarters more than Walt, who owns the Laundromat (along with one near State and another up on Fourth). The problem with the quarters has always nagged at him, ever since he got into the coin-op laundry business, but lately it angers him all out of proportion. That’s what his wife says and he knows she’s right. It doesn’t make him feel less angry.
He arrives every morning at seven to unlock the doors and fill the change machine with quarters. He makes one visit to the bank each week to make deposits and transfers and to buy one hundred and twenty dollars worth of quarters to replace shrinkage. One hundred and twenty dollars. Every week. Where do they go? What do they do with them? He never leaves the change machine full overnight because he knows how tempting quarters can be, even in this neighborhood where he feels safe enough to empty his machines every evening at eight without variance. After filling the machine, he checks his washers and dryers and judges that the flickering fluorescent near the storeroom will last another couple of weeks before it burns out completely. He grabs the broom from the storeroom and sets upon the lint he decided to skip last night. He thinks maybe he should have done the sweeping last night rather than let it wait, but Jesus, sometimes he gets sick of sweeping away lint every night. Still he shoulda done it last night; now he’ll need to sweep up lint twice in one day.
Soon a couple of customers push through the glass doors, one’s a thirty-ish mom in sweats carrying a battered plastic basket full of shirts and jeans, and the other is man in khaki pants carrying a crisp five dollar bill and nothing else. Walt looks up from the broom. He’s seen the mom in sweats plenty of times, and he’s seen the man with the five-dollar bill before, too. Five Dollar Bill looks around the Laundromat, tugging at the brim of his blue LA Dodgers cap, then he faces the change machine and inserts his bill.
“Hey,” says Walt.
Five Dollar Bill starts and turns. Quarters ring down into the catcher, a self-serve jackpot.
“I mean what the hell?” says Walt. “Can’t you read?”
Five Dollar Bill looks at the sign. “I saw that,” he says turning back. The coins stop ringing into the catcher. “But I needed some quarters.”
“Can’t you see me standing here? With a broom? Like I work here and might notice you taking change but not washing clothes?”
“I’ve seen you with your broom a coulpa times,” says Five Dollar Bill. “I figured you didn’t care.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out another five. “I’m planning on buying a box of soap from that vending machine. That makes me a customer.”
“That’s not a customer.” Walt sets the broom against the storeroom door and walks toward the change machine.
“Of course it is.” Five Dollar Bill reaches for the coins.
“Put those back in my hopper. No, it doesn’t. It makes you a liar and a freeloader. I know for a fact you weren’t going to buy soap. Nobody does, especially nobody who isn’t doing their wash here. You can get twice as much soap for half the price at the grocery strore. And you’ve never paid me for providing you with an easy and convenient source of quarters. That’s freeloading.”
“What the hell?”
“Now get out.”
Walt glares while he pulls a five-dollar bill of his own from his wallet. “Take it and get out.”
Five Dollar Bill snatches Walt’s five-dollar bill and pushes out through the glass door and into the parking lot, tugging at his ballcap.
Walt breathes out a little and grins. He’s never done anything like that before. He doesn’t even feel nagged. Fuck the quarters and fuck Five Dollar Bill.
“Excuse me,” says the mom in sweats from behind. “Do you mind if I make some change?”
Walt turns to face her. “Not at all,” he smiles. “Take these. No charge if you buy some soap out of the machine.”