cranked the window up. Which seemed like
a little more than an effort Gramps nodded
his nubs and somehow jerkily, set the car in
motion.
And I back tracked, nonchalantly glancing
around the yards and house to see if anyone
else had noticed. I wondered if that old man
thought I was male. His facial expressions
reminded me of a time last spring when I was
on the road thumbing back to school. I got
picked up by this man drinking a Stroh’s with
the five more cans between his legs. He ac
quainted me with many of his post World War
II thumbing excursions — travelling from the
West Coast to the East Coast with literally no
problem at all. People who gave him a lift
were so friendly to him, sometimes putting
him up for the night in their homes. He was
trying to repay all the good fortune he had
received by picking up hitchhikers, but it
really scared him to see girls on the road and
how dangerous it is. If he ever caught his
daughter hitchhiking it would kill him. “ It’s
just too dangerous for girls to be alone on the
road," he said as he popped the tab off
another beer can. I don’t remember for sure,
but as calmly as hell I explained to him that
my gender was female.
Returning to my l\-M art shopping cart, I
tucked away the strays in my backpack and
trudged onward down Sage Street expecting
the worst of worsts at any m om ent Perhaps
it would just be a semi hammering it down on
me, or who knows, the way my luck’s been
running, a whole brigade of K-Mart-a-troopers
might be after me to repossess their cart
The rest of the way was all downhill. When I
arrived at my destination, as expected, it was
confusion plus. I kinda related it to being at a
sideshow of the Bamum & Bailey Circus when
I was ten. A feeling of complete disorientation
takes place at times like these and I was wish
ing I was high. Then again, being straight with
such bizarities going on is a whole nother
trip. I wheeled my shopping cart over to the
nearest vacant chair, which hardly resembled
a chair, and parked. It took me a couple of
minutes to decide whether the “what appear
ed to be” dried up hot chocolate that was
spilled all over the seat was actually dried up
or not Deciding that it was and feeling a little
self-conscious, I sat down and began the wait
for my turn with the Big Green Machine.
It truly amazed me how many little people
there were roaming under and around tables,
chairs, machines and people. It seemed to
me that every single one of them had baby
bottles permanently adhered to their lips
sucking away. .. intently on . .. it wasn’t milk
... it was Coca-Cola. Little toddlers drinking
Coca-Cola! “They sure are getting a taste of
reality at an awfully young age,” as I recalled
just how early I had started smoking cigaret
tes, but somehow this seemed different...
somehow.
"I’m done with my washer,” a woman’s
voice startled me as she interrupted my
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Thanks,” I uttered, as I looked up too soon to
avoid direct eye contact Shifting my focus, I
couldn t help but notice her blueish-graish
kinks pulled back tight across her scalp, ex
posing sad brown eyes. She looked forty. She
wasn't a day over twenty-five.
As I wheeled down to the Big Green
.Machine she was pointing out for me, I tried
to imagine what life must be like for her.
Rounding a table that was oddly situated be
tween two other tables I just missed running
over a little person sprawled out on the floor.
But it was a close call, and the kid started to
cry — wail — and downright bawl. “Where
the hell was the mother to let the kid be
sprawled all over the floor like that?” I .
thought a bit ticked off and quite a bit
anxiety-ridden by the commotion this kid was
ere ating. The mother of the sprawler arrived at
the scene of the crime with “ kHI” in her eyes.
She gathered up her child from the floor and
glared at me like it was all my fault If I would
have actually harmed the kid I swear she
would have sued me. She bitched something
at me like, “Why don’t you watch where
you’re going, Mister?!” or maybe it was more
like, “ I’ll beat your fuckin’ head in you •••••!!”
“ I’m sorry, lady,” was about all I could man
age as she heel-turned back to her Big Green
Machine. “What a fuckin’ bitch!” were the
only words rambling around in my head as I
headed towards the comer.
This machine is one of those fifty cent jobs
for rugs and like objects, so I decided to
conserve and throw it all in together. It really
didn’t matter to me anymore if the colors ran
or n o t I didn't feel like sticking around any
longer than necessary, so in it all went whites,
darks and multis. Besides, if the colors do
run, who’d care? Some of the most creative
things I’ve ever done occur this way.
That fourth and final kick in the first round
started the Big Green Machine on its first
cycle so I wandered over to check out the
happenings on the bulletin board. I can al
ways count on bulletin boards to shift my
focus. That is, at least laundry mat bulletin
boards haven’t let me down. Usually, I just
completely forget what was on my mind and
try to figure out what types of people put up
these ads.
"Wanted to buy G rit” the ad read. “You can
receive Grit every week for 25C." I imagine
that is some sort of underground conspiracy
as I noted the “what’s for sale signs" and
where the bingo games were being held this
month. In the comer of my eye is this twenty-
twenty-four-year-old woman standing to the
left of me, directly in front of a "house for
sale" sign. She has the same frame, build and
hair style as Janis Joplin. Even the way she
positioned her body by supporting her weight
on one leg while leaning against the wall. It
may have been either the “ windblown" hair
style that caught my eye or maybe it was all
those silver bracelets tinging together from
her elbow on down. But maybe, just maybe it
was the feeling I got from her. That sort of "I
know where you’re coming from " vibe that I
responded to.
"D o you come here often?" asked the
Janis Joplin resemblance. "Not too,” I
replied, wondering if she had read my
thoughts that were focusing in on the image
she relayed about herself. An image that I like
and easily relate to. "I probably make it here
once a month if I’m lucky,” I added so the
conversation wouldn't stagnate, “and some
times not even that” Her eyes stayed on me
as mine glanced back over to the AM/FM
radio/cassette player ads that were so abun
dant I found myself wondering if Janis Joplin
had ever been to a Mr. Sud's laundrymat
before. She was probably real stoned if she
had been to one and probably never let trivial
sayings and interactions bother her. Actually,
I bet if Janis ever went into a Mr. Sud’s she
was looking for a pickup for another one
night stand. I have often fantasized what it
would have been like to have been a "Janis
Joplin one night stand" or for that matter to
have been her lover.
"Wanna do some coke with me?" she
asked in a hushed but anxious, cackly giggle.
I was delighted she asked. I felt her energy
flowing freely within and without restrictions.
So natural she seemed to me that her en
thusiasm wasn’t surprising at all — just high
on spontaneity. I felt individual, not routine
like so many other times in “ funny" situa
tions. My instincts were saying “touch her
and let her know” but the conditioned half
said, "Everyone knows you don’t touch stran
gers." I looked into her sky blue eyes and a
glim m er of warmth radiated from inside her
as she touched my arm. She was giving me
her strength and reassurance that it was all
rig h t whatever I was thinking or feeling was
perfectly all rig h t "Get it while you can," or
“ Might as well,” I said, verbalizing an answer.
She smiled a spacy teeth smile and took my
arm again. She stated a fact when she said,
"Ah, Women, Women,” as we headed for the
door.
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