Laundromat Close By Novels & Stories

​I headed for the one place that didn't exist on a map. ​The "Spin Cycle" was a laundromat on a crumbling corner of Bushwick that smelled of industrial detergent and damp concrete. It was owned by a man named Old Sal, who had lost his left hand to a Syndicate debt in the nineties and his soul to the bottle shortly after. I pulled the Ducati into the narrow, trash-strewn alley behind the building and killed the lights. ​"We’re here," I said, hopping off the bike and catching Julian as he literally slid off the seat.

"But it's a big enough area for me to stretch on the way to me run and a place to take off me sweaty clothes on the way back before hittin' the shower." Denise turns the heat up on the rice and opens the fridge, talking loudly over her shoulder as she digs around on the shelves. "They have a place just like that in the brownstone. I'm sure you've heard of it. It's called a laundry room," she emphasizes, turning back with a carton of eggs in her hands. "And the best part is you can throw those sweaty clothes right in the washer instead of on the grass." He harrumphs. "In the condo, I don't have to maintain a yard."

Ria and Nazia sat on their beds unpacking their suitcases quietly. Ria didn't remove her clothes but she removed a large plastic cover which she kept separately to put used clothes in. She wondered if there was any laundry shop nearby the college. "Is there any laundry shop nearby?" Ria asked Nazia. "No, but there is a room downstairs that has a washing machine, a television and a fridge. We can use it but we have to pay the warden." "I have noticed something in India. We have to pay for every small thing. I mean payment just to keep something in the fridge sounds absurd to me." said Ria, shocked.

Doris stopped at a laundromat. “Do not say anything” she mumbled to Ruby. Ruby was too tired to reply. Her feet hurt badly, wearing sandals had been a bad choice for when she was going to walk a long distance in the heat. Also, she felt sweat trickle down her back through the scarf. Doris pushed the bell and let herself in. The laundromat seemed very busy, a couple of people were using the washing machine. “Can I help you with anything?” A young lady walked up to them with a friendly smile

"How fucking original." --- Forty minutes later, Jordan pushed open the door to Clean Sweep Laundromat, the bell above jingling cheerfully. The place looked legitimate enough—rows of washing machines along the walls, a few customers folding clothes, the humid air thick with the smell of detergent and fabric softener. Jordan scanned the room, his trained eyes picking out details others might miss. Security camera in the corner, angled to cover the entire space. A door behind the counter marked "Employees Only." The skinny guy manning the register, pretending to read a magazine but watching Jordan a little too closely.

m. No checkout. No lights left on. Just two shadows slipping down the exterior stairs. Rain had started again fine, cold, steady. It soaked into my hood almost instantly. The parking lot gleamed under streetlamps, reflections shivering with each drop. We didn’t speak for three blocks. A twenty-four-hour laundromat glowed at the corner—too bright, too fluorescent. People moved in and out with baskets and trash bags. No one paid attention to us. Inside, dryers thumped rhythmically. The air smelled like detergent and overheated metal.

I nod and hurry out the door. The Laundry building is illy lit, dark and very hot. Steam hisses everywhere, escaping from hot kettles, transport pipes and irons. Through the steam mists I see old limping hunched figures moving around. It’s clear that the laundry house is the place where John squeezes the last bit of life from his omega’s.

A neutral look played on her face, hinting at the unspoken connection between them. Within the bathroom, Ariana gathered Mateo's damp clothes, her hands deftly maneuvering them into the waiting washing machine. She added detergent, ensuring each garment was treated with care. Observing the cycle commence, she monitored the rhythmic motion of the machine, a symbol of renewal and transformation.

I said. “This part of the house rarely gets used during fall and winter. Maybe just a few times in spring. I only remember it’s here because this is where the laundry happens.” I looked at a small hamper filled with Noah’s clothes and a larger one filled with some of his. “Do you want me to do a load of your wash? I’d feel bad only washing a few things—wasting water and detergent and all.” Bratt shook his head. “Nah. The washer is eco-friendly, and a little bit of wasted soap isn’t going to put me in the poor house. There’s a quick wash setting for smaller loads.”

After the laundry truck parked inside the loading bay, Janice had no problem just walking out of the industrial laundromat, making sure to lock the door behind her and careful to avoid the cheap security cameras posted along the outside walls. It was almost too easy. Now all she needed was some new clothes. Janice knew she wouldn't get very far dressed as a jailbird, especially one that was most likely on every news channel by now. Every internet blog posting and reposting her picture in every corner of the country. If she was being honest, she should probably change more than her clothes, but one thing at a time.