Novelas y relatos de Laundromat Quincy Ma

Thankfully, the nearest twenty-four-hour mart was only a few blocks away, so after I shooed my parents out the door and on their way home to keep them from being on the road any later than necessary, I ran out and found myself some queen-sized sheets, trying to look at things on the bright side: I was getting a bigger bed! When I returned, Wick walked me down to the building’s basement to show me where the laundry room was kept so I wouldn’t have to sleep in itchy, new sheets. But as soon as I stuffed the crisp linen into one of the washing machines, I realized I didn’t have any detergent.

​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.

People like Grayson Hawthorne didn’t just enter rooms. They changed the atmosphere. ****** After breakfast, we headed back to our residential building. Each building inside the institute had its own luxury laundry area. Calling it a laundry room felt like an understatement. The place looked like something from a high-end hotel. Rows of sleek washers and dryers lined the walls. Shelves were stocked with gentle detergents and fabric softeners provided by the institute. There were even steamers and professional irons for delicate fabrics. Students were responsible for managing their own schedules.

I grab the second basket and he leads me down to the laundry room. “I know we didn’t get it all done, I’m sorry, but we need to get going.” I nod as I place the basket on the same table Ash set his down on. There are 6 massive commercial washers with 6 commercial gas driers. Cupboards and counters all the way around, with ironing boards against a wall, and tables in the center of the room. Ash gently grabs my hand and pulls me to the door. “Nickle for your thoughts?” “Nickle?”

Bit back a yelp, rolled out onto concrete. Basement laundry was huge: washers growling, dryers thumping, steam thick, bleach and softener and metal in the air. No people—robots folded clothes, conveyor belts zipped stacks into plastic. Uniform rack nearby: black pants, white shirt, tag “M. Torres.” Close enough. Pants loose, shirt starched stiff, shoes half-size big but better than nothing. Key ring on hook: SERVICE VEHICLES—ROVER #2. Grabbed it, metal cold. Service door out back to gravel path behind the kitchen, pampas grass hiding it from the house. Ocean louder, tide climbing, waves clawing the cliff. Salt and pine sharp, sky turning bruise-purple. Checked burner: 17:29. Thirteen minutes

WILLOW’S POV One more thing that impresses me about the servant quarters and living arrangements is the fact that each floor of the building has not only got its own bathroom, but laundry room as well and there’s also a roaster that has to be followed so that there are no clashes in the laundry room when people want to do their laundry. Only six people are allowed to do laundry at a time, since there are six laundry machines in the room and they are responsible for keeping it clean and spotless on that day.

Mara touches two fingers to her own wrist. The girl looks down at her clay. She does not follow. She is maybe six. I hate myself for being relieved. The laundry is two corridors down, behind a door marked DOMESTIC CYCLE B. Warm wet air rolls out when Mara opens it. The room smells of detergent, hot metal, old cotton, and bodies trying to be clean enough for other people’s rules. Rows of white sheets turn behind round glass doors. The machines are loud. Real loud. Not the curated hush of Trust. This sound has bolts in it. Bearings. Water slamming cloth. A place where microphones have to work harder.

I offered. "Oh, thanks!" she replied with a smile. I snagged a book I had started some time earlier, along with the detergent and fabric softener sheets. There were a few other people in the laundromat, including four smaller kids. I had to wait for a while before a washer became available. Then I got engrossed in my book for the next hour. Tamara, a neighbor from three doors down in our building, gently nudged me to point out that my washer had finished.