Into my world he comes.
After I wake up early and write my column for two hours, I reward myself by doing laundry. “I’m trying to picture what you do during the day.” I’m sitting next to a guy wearing orange pants in a grimy Laundromat on West Fourth at the beginning of a new, hopefully stunning, year. Saturday morning calls for wearing red sweatpants featuring Mickey Mouse on the left hip, dragging dirty clothes in a blue plastic basket with a broken handle five blocks to a slightly cheaper Laundromat than the one around the corner from my basement apartment, stuffing as much as humanly possible into a single machine, and relaxing while drinking deli coffee with half-and-half and eating a low-fat berry muffin while reading the Times as my laundry spins. This is the way it’s been for over four years. Any variation and I’m thrown. Possibly made angry. Maybe I’ll mope. I focus on the guy in orange pants. “You have to have another job. You can’t be making it by playing a club once or twice a week.” I look at him doubtfully, trying to quickly remember how much I weighed when I woke this morning. “Can you?” I blow on my coffee and suck in my stomach, which is tough when sitting down.
--by Jennifer Spiegel
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