30 Pieces of a Novel (55 page)

He puts his laundry into the basket, detergent, his keys—where are the keys? found them yesterday under the newspaper after he looked for about ten minutes, finds them now where they should be, on a hook by the front door; how come he doesn't just automatically leave them there every time first thing when he comes in? that'd relieve him of a few anxious minutes a couple of days a month, a thought he's thought plenty before—rings for the elevator, it comes straight up from two or three floors below, so hardly any wait, good, and he gets on it and goes to the basement and the laundry room there. He can see right away when he walks in—lids are up—that several machines are free. He was hoping so; chose an hour in the afternoon (half past four) when he thought most tenants would have done their wash by now. Takes the free machine closest to the bank of dryers, because then there's a shorter walk with the wet clothes to one of them, puts in detergent, never measures it, just dumps in what he thinks is a capful, shuts the lid, and sticks his hands in his pockets for quarters. Dammit, why does he always have to forget something? Now it's upstairs and down and back up again; now it's more waste of time. Elevator won't be there waiting for him. It'll probably be on its way to the top floor and he'll have to wait for it to come down. It'll probably make a few stops on the way up and down before it reaches him, and another five minutes of his day will be lost because of a dumb mistake. Think, think, stupid: keys, detergent, laundry. Goes to the elevator with the detergent, and sure enough the red light by the button's on. He pushes the button; five minutes lost in getting the quarters could turn into ten or twenty or even more if he misses the last free dryer by a few minutes when his wash is done. That's happened. Were any dryers free before? There are only four of them—should be more for a building this size; there are about eight washers—but he forgot to look. But even if they're all free now, they can all be taken in thirty minutes, and by one person: he's seen tenants lugging shopping carts stacked with huge bundles of dirty laundry, enough in them to fill all the washing machines, or close. If the dryers are taken—there must be plenty of tenants who realize that three to five in the afternoon is the best time to get a free machine—he'll have to wait till one of them stops and then take out the dry laundry, if it is dry. If it isn't, does he take it out anyway and put it on one of the tables there? Can't do that because the person will probably want to send it through another thirty minutes; it's what he'd do if his stuff was still wet and what he's done a few times too. He's always putting too much laundry into the machines to save on the costs, though less in the dryer than the washer since all his clothes are made of cotton and he's afraid the hot air will shrink them. Or maybe it won't be that bad. There might be several dryers free and nobody making a beeline to them; that's happened too. Anyway, remember the quarters next time, and more than you need in case the washer takes them but doesn't start. Elevator door opens, he hopes the
L
button light isn't on, it isn't (on the lobby floor the rider has no control over the
CLOSE
button; the car just stays there with the door open for about thirty seconds), and he presses 7, rides up, unlocks his door, shoves the detergent inside, and with his foot keeping the front door open he stretches in and grabs a 35-millimeter film container filled with quarters off one of the hallway's bookshelves, elevator door's closed by now but car's still there—well, he had to get lucky sometime today—and rides downstairs, inserts the quarters, and washer starts. Did he put detergent in? Thinks back, sees himself pouring it in and then closing the lid. Goes to the dryers; they're all running. That could be good, if nobody gets to them before him or at least to the last one, because by the time he comes back here they'll all be done. He can tell by the lights on them that several washers are going, but lots of people don't see to their wash as punctually as him: a half hour, give or take a couple of minutes, after the machine begins. If there is only one dryer free when he comes back he should quickly stick the quarters in, close the door, which starts it running, and then get his wash out of the washer and put it into the dryer. But why get so desperate? Bring a book or the rest of today's paper and his glasses with him and, if all the dryers are going, sit on a bench or a table here and read till one stops. He goes to the elevator and presses the button. He doesn't have his watch on—he usually does, or in his pocket, to see the time he started the wash so he can put his laundry into the dryer in thirty minutes right after the washer stops—but the watch is only one more thing to remember to take with him, and he can estimate the time pretty accurately by looking at his watch or clock first thing when he gets upstairs. If there was a wall clock in the laundry room it'd make things easier, but he bets the landlord thinks it'll get stolen. The elevator stops in the lobby, the usual thirty seconds, maybe some people are getting on or off. Though lots of tenants, to make sure the elevator stops for them in the lobby or because they don't know how the elevator system works, press both the
UP
and
DOWN
buttons, which means the elevator stops there before going to the basement if someone down here's rung for it. Door opens, car's empty, so people must have only got off in the lobby or else are waiting to get on when it returns from the basement—anxious perhaps about going down there alone if it's a woman or someone old or a child—since the
L
button light's on. Crap—pressing the
CLOSE
and 7 buttons—if only he could go straight to his floor without stopping as he did before. Elevator stops in the lobby. Woman gets on, young, nice face, intelligent looking, smiles and says hello, and he says, “How do you do?” and she nods at him and looks at the floor indicator above the door and then presses the
CLOSE
button. “Forget it, it's got a mind of its own for this floor,” and she says, “I found that out but am always hoping,” and he says, “Hope has no influence on the car's programmed instructions.” She presses the
CLOSE
button again and door closes and he says, “Don't worry, it's because of nothing you did,” and the elevator goes up. “Thirty seconds minimum, more like forty-five, I see. Probably, because there's only one elevator for this end of the building, to pack as many of us in without crushing our shoulders with the closing door. Anyway, some engineer or time-and-space genius has figured it out. By the way, you have the time? Just want to make sure I get back to the laundry room in thirty minutes. So few dryers down there,” and she says, “I'm fortunate; apartment I'm in has a washer and dryer together,” and he says, “One of those one-on-top-of-the-other units? Who's that? You subletting?” and she says, “Shh, I'm not supposed to tell because she's not supposed to be doing it, and I no doubt already said more than I should have,” and he says, “Don't worry,” as the door opens, “I won't snitch. What floor you going to?” and she says, “Oh, goodness, I completely forgot: five. I'll get off at yours and walk down,” and he says, “Why? Ride,” and presses 5, then rests his finger on the
OPEN
button to keep the door from closing. “Is it Rose Grange's? Haven't seen her in a while, and she's the only one I know on five,” and she says, “You know Rose well?” and he says, “Mostly through a man she went out with a couple of years ago. So I got to know her vaguely, and after they broke up, mostly for going-up-and-down-elevator and bumping-into-in-the-neighbor-hood and lobby talk,” and she says, “You mean Larry Tutman?” and he says yeah, and she says, “Awful what happened to him. But aren't we keeping the elevator too long?” and he says, “Wait, though; what happened to Larry? Haven't seen him in a year. We weren't great friends, but I knew him and heard he left the city. Probably got a college job because I know he was looking hard and he seemed to have all the academic credentials for it. He get sick?” and she says, “Worse, much worse. It's so bad I don't even like talking about it. And excuse me but I'm still worried about our appropriating the elevator when someone might be buzzing for it,” and he says, “No one is. Button light would be on. If you don't mind, would it be okay if I ride down with you while you tell me about Larry?” and she says, “Then you'll have to go all the way to the lobby after it stops at five. There's only one elevator button per hallway, so it doesn't seem to go up from any place but the lobby—and the basement, of course, because from there it has no other direction to go,” and he says, “Only if someone in the lobby or any of the floors lower than yours has pressed the button first. Anyway, it's no big deal for me to go to the lobby and then up again—but do you have the time, a watch?” and she gives it, and he lets the door close and says, “I've twenty-five minutes to put my laundry into the dryer. Not a useful piece of information for you, unless your own machine breaks, but that's how long the basement washers take: thirty minutes. Same with the dryers,” and door opens on 5, she says she feels uncomfortable being the first to tell him about Larry, and then goes into what happened. He says, “It's shocking, I can't believe it; of all people for it to happen to,” his finger on the
OPEN
button. “He was such a peaceful, good-natured guy. I'm sure he was walking away from it or trying to mediate the situation—something like that but certainly not provoking or inflaming anything—and that kind of reaction or well-intentioned interference can enrage some people, particularly idiots and misfits. What's also puzzling is why Rose never told me—she knew I knew and liked the guy. But how'd you know him? Through Rose?” and she says, “Excuse me again but someone on fourteen wants to use the elevator. Maybe I should ride up with you to your floor if we're going to continue the conversation,” and he says, “First, though, and I don't mean to sound funny—I only want to prepare you for this—we'll
have to go to fourteen and any
other floor above or below us before we press seven,” and he presses 7, “for only after that will the elevator stop at seven.” They go up; no other button lights go on. She tells him how she knows Larry—“Even before Rose.” A woman with a dog gets on at 14 and they're silent till they get off at 7, and while they're standing in the hallway in front of the elevator she says why she thinks Rose didn't want to tell him about what happened to Larry. He says, “I don't see it, though maybe you're right. But listen, I have about twenty minutes before I have to take my laundry out of the washer, could I invite you in for coffee or tea? My apartment's right over there, same J-line as Rose,” and she says, “Then I can probably find my way around it blindfold. They're all alike except for things like bookcases people had built in them. I've already seen 4-J and 6-J—6-J mostly to complain about his rock music a few times, so I never got past the foyer,” and he says “Hallway?” and she says, “If you like. And 13-J. And I have some time and I'll remind you about your wash if you forget. You have—” looking at her watch, and he says, “It's all right. Minute I get inside I'll check the clock,” and they go in, talk—“We use the same detergent,” she says, “how about that?”—they're both interested in literature, music, and art, each knows people the other knows besides Larry and Rose and several tenants in the building: a woman he worked with, a man who'd been in the same doctoral program as she though a few years before her, a couple of poets. “I have no cookies or anything like that, can I make you toast?” and she says, “No, I've had it for breakfast and lunch, the latter in a sandwich, but thanks.” He asks her out for dinner tonight, “something simple, maybe Chinese.” She says she's busy, but not tomorrow, and she's had so much Chinese food recently, but there's a Japanese restaurant a few blocks away she wouldn't mind trying. They make a date. They start seeing each other regularly and then almost every day. She says he can do his laundry in her apartment from time to time, especially when he's having dinner at her place, but her machines are half the size of the ones in the basement and he only likes doing his wash once a week, “though saving on the cost of it is appealing.” They sleep with each other in a few weeks. He wanted to do it sooner but she said she's had a number of unsuccessful relationships the past two years and she thinks part of the fault is she got involved too quickly. “Let's know each other more, do you mind very much? Even if you do, I'll have to insist.” He forgot his laundry that day he met her. They talked for about an hour, laundry never came up once she mentioned his detergent when she entered his apartment; about three hours after she left, he remembered his wash and got on the elevator with his container of quarters and pressed B and the button light didn't go on and the car wouldn't go farther than the lobby. He got off and asked the night man on duty why the elevator wasn't going to the basement and was told the laundry room closes at eight. “I thought the sign on the laundry room door was ancient and those weren't the hours anymore,” and the man said, “If you look carefully, sir, you'll see the sign says till seven. But the Tenant Association had it changed to eight two years ago.” He went down at seven-ten the next morning, ten minutes after the laundry room was scheduled to open, and his wet wash was in a pile on one of the tables and two of the dryers and about half the washers were running. Good time to do the wash, he thought, but who can get it going so early? It'd mean gathering the laundry, quarters, keys, detergent, and when the wash was done all the dryers might be taken. Maybe one solution, if he was unable to do it late afternoon, is to put the wash in between seven-thirty and eight at night and then come down here at around this time to stick the wet laundry into a dryer. That night on the way to the restaurant he told her he got so absorbed in their conversation yesterday that he forgot about his wash entirely, and she said, “That's to my credit, I guess, though I don't know if I should feel flattered or if it connotes any rapport between us. But what'd you do about it?” and he told her, and she said, “I'm sure that's why Rose got her own washer-dryer, besides the fear of going alone to the basement at any hour. I'm not afraid of that, though I'd never set foot in there after seven.” They get engaged, married, have a child. First she moves into his apartment a week before Rose returns, and when she's eight months pregnant they buy, for emergency washings of diapers and other baby things, a portable washing machine that operates out of the bathtub. They now live in another state, teach at the same college, have a second child, a small semidetached house in an area that has what's considered the best elementary school in the city, a washer and dryer in the basement, and in the backyard during the warm months an umbrellalike clothesline the wind sometimes spins around when there's little to no laundry on it. He goes to the elevator and presses the button. Door opens, car's empty, and he gets on and rides the elevator from the basement. No button lights on below 7, so it goes straight to his floor. He does some work at his desk, a half hour later brushes four quarters off a bookshelf into his hand—the film container of quarters is just too damn heavy in his pocket—gets his keys off the hook by the door, pulls a paperback out of the bookcase and sticks it into his back pocket, and goes to the basement. His washing machine has just finished its spin cycle and clicks off when he walks into the laundry room. Now that's timing! One of the dryers is free, nobody else down here to use it, so his good luck continues, he thinks. He drops the wash into the laundry basket, which he left by the washer, squeezes the basket into the dryer, and turns it over so the laundry falls out. He puts the quarters into the slots and pushes the change part in but the dryer doesn't start. Sometimes he gets nickels mixed up for the quarters and the hallway was fairly dark when he got them off the shelf, and he looks and they're all quarters but the dryer now takes five of them instead of four. Since when? Maybe it's just this one—when they were repairing it or something they changed it—and he looks and no, they're all now a buck twenty-five. He's got to go upstairs for one quarter? The elevator won't be waiting for him, et cetera. Another ten minutes, or five, but anyway, more time wasted. Oh to have the dough to buy a washer-dryer, some small compact unit, to avoid all this. Some day maybe if he stays in this building that long. Even if he doesn't. He hates having too many possessions but this would be one—well, it'd be much larger—but, like his stereo system, that he'd move with him wherever he goes. Elevator comes, a woman gets off dragging a larger than normal laundry basket with enough laundry in it for three loads. Good thing he got here when he did, and he gets in and presses 7. Damn, he thinks, going up, should have tried borrowing a quarter from her. And shouldn't he have helped her drag the basket into the laundry room? No, she chose to do all her wash at once—he likes to too, but he wouldn't do it if he had so much—why encourage her to tie up maybe three machines and later all the available dryers? He could have borrowed the quarter from her after he helped her with the basket, but then she might have said something like, “Keep it, you earned it,” if she had an extra quarter—for so much wash, she had to—and he would have protested, saying he'll give her the quarter when he comes back to get his things out of the dryer or he'll put it in her basket if she's not here then and if she leaves the basket—and all that would take more time than it would to get the quarter from upstairs and return here. He goes into his apartment, gets a quarter, and rings for the elevator. His quarters, he thinks, riding downstairs. He never should have left them in the slots. But nobody's going to take them or at least not in the time he's been away. They're still there—the woman has four washing machines open and is putting laundry into all of them (probably whites in one, colors in another, delicate stuff in a third, who knows what in the fourth? maybe more colors or whites or both if that laundry is already dulled or stained)—and he puts the fifth quarter into the slot, shoves the change part in, and the dryer starts. Set the dial for