a color story: nyc coin laundry

Here we go again. The laundry needed attending. The chore wasn’t cumbersome — rather a break from the vacation rhythms. BKM Laundromat wasn’t the closest nor was it the best Google rated. But, it was open.

After walking 35000 steps by 4 pm, I felt invincible — it could be the adrenaline feeding my ego or just the raw NYC street energy. Before departing our way, I grabbed an Italian Sandwich with my brother. On prime mid-Manhattan real estate, the convenience was the primary source of the premium 17-dollar price point. It was, however, quite delicious for the pure size and quality of the ingredients. Even by splitting the sandwich in half, the Italian street meal could fuel my New York adventures for at least two hours.

The large sandwich consisted of salami, eggplant artichoke mix with a subtle cheese on a crispy flat Italian bread. The more I bit into it, the better I enjoyed the simplicity of the ingredients. It knew what it was. The ingredients played their parts. The salami was the primary focus as the other ingredients were playing entourage. By the way, I had to wait outside due to my literal baggage. The two tote bags of laundry occupied too much space. And it wasn’t good for the space either. For street food, the interior decorating for a place to drink wine and socialize. Nobody wants to see a symbol of a chore while in the state of leisure — let alone, smell hints of dirty cloth. The customer behind me expressed a sigh of relief when I left the line to respect the space.

Diverging our paths, I took my chore to its home. The laundromat was close by and I lucked out — the rain poured once I got in. It was almost 7 pm and there were no coin machines. I had to go to the front and ask for the change. “$10 worth of coins, please” and purchased two pods that entered directly into the machine. I found my spot to wash and spot to sit. 25 minutes. For this part of town, it seemed so quiet. What was this place?

At the moment, I wrote live. How was I going to translate my color impressions with maroon-sand tiles and the stainless steel greys? This whole space was filled with it. Not people, just the anti-people. The anti-social I may say. Everybody was at the full mercy of the weather outside but their clothing was at risk of theft? Maybe I was overthinking the situation. The public facility just didn’t seem like a safe space to just leave laundry out of supervision. I could tell that the staff here just wanted to mind their own business. Unlike my joyful interaction at the South Beach laundromat, where she would even act as a gatekeeper, the staff here operated at the back. I don’t think it was the sense of pride that made the differences distinguishing, maybe it was just the way it was.

The space was vintage dull- it had a certain charm. One that felt quite similar to Wes Anderson’s “The Grand Budapest Hotel” where the hotel aged a certain way. There wasn’t a charismatic hotel staff and there was no true passionate concierge. Although a laundromat was no grand hotel on a mountain top, it sure could have characters, right? I’ve encountered it before. Maybe, it was just the way it was here in NYC. Maybe the space was the anti-street energy or even the anti-energy. I’d like to think of it as the dull-romantic.

For now, let’s talk about the people. Two people worked at the counter. Not kind mother-like seniors but two younger ladies with a no bs mentality. The public Manhattan facility probably curated an environment that led to their personalities. I appreciated the straightforward advice and tips. They knew immediately that I wasn’t the type to do laundry well. To be honest, there weren’t many males on the mat.

A young family with a fussy toddler took up the social dynamics. The mom was at her final patience with her son. Mom would say this. But the fussy son said no. Mom insisted. Again, the son would say no. But, the dad just listened and magically, the son would mirror his dad’s action. Good cop and bad cop. A tale that never got old.

But looking back, who doesn’t want to mirror their parents? If you give off the negative energy, naturally, one expressed it as well. When I first heard the bitter arguments between the mother and son, I couldn’t help but relate to the bickering of Asian parents. Let’s say I was the immature one. Regardless, the tough love or feedback — what have you — was a great indicator of love. One just had to dig deeper to find it. I’d rather receive the tough love than a false sense of appreciation.

Maybe, it was just the way it was. Clothes washed. Dryer.

One chick was reading a book; it was her form of decompressing. Or maybe she was just a pseudo-book reader. I would know as guilt permitted the thought. Another was going through her phone. Maybe there was public wifi available. But everybody had their own forms of decompression. The staff finished up their in-house laundry folding service duties. The accumulation of lint from the filter grabbed out. The dirt from the maroon tiles broomed out. And the dryer finished.

The folding table was available at the front. I had a view of the wet streets where I roughly folded the crispy laundry. One by one. Fold by fold. Stacked into their respective tote bags. I waved my goodbyes and a peace sign. I appreciated their advice and customer service. I took one last look at my sitting area. The elevated maroon tiles acted as a thin bench and it sat the stainless steel washing machines. One last look at that horizon — the space between the tile and machine.