The Laundry Cycle

The last time I did my laundry, I discovered my life purpose.

New York was in the middle of a heat wave and, as usual, I was in the middle of an anxiety attack. To calm down, as usual, I was lugging my dirty laundry down several flights of stairs to the basement of my building. A little pre-war brownstone in Midtown East Manhattan with twenty-five apartments and a laundry room with only one washer and dryer each.

I scraped my knuckles on the door frame as I heaved my hamper inside. The motion detector flipped on the flickering fluorescent lights. Against the wall was an old off-white dryer humming away. And next to it was a washing machine sitting completely still. I dumped my clothes into the chamber, turned a few knobs, and ran it on normal. Then I realized I forgot laundry detergent — and ran back upstairs only to find I was fresh out. Maybe I should have checked the laundry room first, I thought. So, I ran back down. Again.

While I was gone, the dryer had finished its cycle. Whoever was using it left their detergent on the shelf. I’ll just use a little, I thought as I drizzled the thick blue liquid over my clothes.

Then I went upstairs to watch Seinfeld.

Half an hour later, I went back down to move my laundry. But whoever was using the dryer, whoever owned the detergent I borrowed, still hadn’t grabbed their clothes. So, I closed the lid, went back upstairs, and waited. Forty-five minutes later, and every forty-five minutes after that, I checked the dryer again. Once. Twice. Seven times. But the machine was never emptied. I couldn’t believe anyone could be this inconsiderate. Clogging the cycle. Disrupting my therapy. Holding me hostage in wet-laundry limbo. Eventually, I got so upset that I removed their clothes from the dryer, tossed them on the floor, and replaced them with my clothes.

Then things got weird.

When I left my apartment to change my laundry, I saw two medics wheeling a stretcher down the hallway toward me. For a second, I thought they were going to Judy’s place, my next-door neighbor, because she’s eighty-six years old and you never know. But Judy was standing in her doorway with enormous sunglasses over her eyes. Leaning forward on her white cane. Listening to every little detail I’m “too overstimulated” to appreciate. Her hand rested on her chest. I asked her what happened.

“Heart attack,” she said. Both words fell to the floor like two dead birds dropping from the sky. She shook her head. “Such a shame,” she went on. “That boy was only twenty-eight.”

“Heart attack?” I repeated. “Twenty-eight?” I didn’t bother telling Judy that, like my dead neighbor, I was also twenty-eight.

“Nice kid, too,” she said. Swiping at my arm like a light switch in a dark room. Eventually, her palm found my shoulder. “He used to carry up my groceries when you weren’t here. Very healthy guy, I imagine.”

“When I wasn’t here?” I said to myself. Wondering whether Judy was aware that I didn’t leave my apartment very often. She cupped her hand around her ear as the medics wheeled away a dead body covered by a heavy beige tarp. “How’d they find him?” I asked.

Judy adjusted her sunglasses. “I smelled something horrible coming from his apartment.” She winced. “I knocked, but he didn’t answer, so I called 911.”

“Wow,” I said. “Wonder how long he was in there.”

“As far as I can tell,” Judy said. Touching her nose. “Not long.” Then she turned around, tapped the door frame with her white cane, and hobbled back into her apartment. “God bless you, sweetie,” she said. Closing the door. Locking several locks from top to bottom.

Then I was alone again.

The hallway was bright and silent as if nothing happened. The only difference was, grabbing my laundry didn’t seem important anymore. So, I just stood there. Processing. Until everything made sense.

I flew down the stairs to the laundry room. With both arms, I scooped up the pile of clothes from the floor and ran back up to the lobby. Dropping random socks and underwear along the way. I ran as fast as I could — as if bringing my dead neighbor’s clothes back might bring him back. But I was too late. The ambulance was gone. And I was alone again in the lobby. Holding my neighbor’s clothes in my arms like they were an injured soldier I never met before. I didn’t know what to do next. So, I brought the clothes to my apartment and dropped them on the rug. For about an hour, all I did was stare at them.

There had to be a reason why, I thought, of all the people who lived in the building, I, his next-door neighbor, was also next in the laundry cycle. It felt like this was supposed to happen. Like there was something I was supposed to do — something beyond my comprehension.

I had to know more, but I couldn’t bring myself to sift through a dead stranger’s clothes with my bare hands. So, I grabbed a wooden spoon and stuck it in the pile. I pulled out a white T-shirt. Clean as the day it was bought. Calvin Klein. Size medium. I had the same shirt. But so did every other guy my age and stature. I folded it in half twice and thought about how my neighbor would never again experience the warm embrace of a freshly laundered t-shirt.

Then I folded the rest of his clothes.

He had several t-shirts. White. Grey. Red. Green. Black tube socks with stripes. Blue jeans. Tan dress pants. Just like my wardrobe, my neighbor’s clothes were nothing unique. But even so, every garment I folded gave me a better sense of who he was. I thought he seemed cool, which made me sad. Maybe we could’ve been friends. Maybe I didn’t have to feel so empty after I lost everything. Maybe my loneliness could’ve been a choice.

But then I found something — something bizarre.

A white button-down shirt.

It wasn’t just any white button-down shirt — I recognized this shirt. This shirt had a light stain on the pocket. It was almost invisible, but I saw it clear as day. An orange stain that wouldn’t come out no matter how many laundry cycles it endured.

I ran downstairs again, opened the dryer, and dug through my freshly laundered clothes until I found it — the exact same white-button-down shirt, with the exact same orange stain on the pocket. I snatched it from the pile, brought it upstairs, and laid it side by side with its twin. I only noticed one difference between them. The pockets, and stains, were on opposite sides. I held them to the light to be sure I wasn’t imagining things. But then I found a dark rectangle in my neighbor’s shirt pocket. I reached inside and pulled out a business card.

Meaning of Life

Call 914-621-7147

I looked at the back, but it was blank. Could it be that simple? I wondered. At the very least, I thought this phone number might help me learn a little more about my neighbor, so I dialed it. The phone rang twice.

“Meaning of life,” said a woman’s voice. She sounded young and sweet. “This is Lucy,” she said. I wasn’t ready to respond — I didn’t think anyone would answer. “You there?”

“...yes!” I said. My shoulders tensed up. “Hello...um...I found your business card. What does it mean?”

“What does what mean, dear?”

I paused. “Um...I don’t know...life, I guess.”

Lucy chuckled. “Nice try — is this Guy Gilbertson? Again?”

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. What do you mean again? Do we know each other? I wanted to say. Instead, I sat up straight and said, “Yes. This is Guy. And who are you exactly?”

 “I just told you,” said Lucy. “I’m Lucy — I’m the one who told you the meaning of life. I thought you’d remember.”

“Well, I don’t,” I said. Looking back at the business card. “Are you, like, a life coach or something?”

“Ha!” she scoffed. “Funny, Guy. Tell you what — come to 8311 Lexington Avenue. I’ll remind you who I am and what I do.”

I hung up and left my apartment immediately.

The address brought me to an abandoned laundromat called “Wash Rinse Repeat!” Through the window, all I could see was dust and cobwebs and old laundry machines. When I walked through the door, a little bell rang, but the sound was swallowed by a low, mechanical rumble. In the corner of the room was a washing machine in the middle of a cycle. Sitting in front of it was a beautiful woman with luscious blue hair and an orange jumpsuit. Her eyes were soft but wide open — fixated on the machine. I thought she could have been an Instagram model, but Instagram models don’t sit and stare at washing machines. This woman, however, was staring into the round hole. Mesmerized by a load of dirty laundry spinning around a soapy black vortex. She smiled. I thought she was brainwashed. Or maybe in love.

“Lucy?” I whispered. The woman didn’t move. “Hello?” I waved. The machine slowed down to a halt and played an annoying little melody.

Still seated, the woman closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and exhaled through her nose with a low hum. Then she turned her head slowly, jingling several piercings in her face, and looked into my eyes. “Guy Gilbertson,” she said. Her blue lips twisted into the perfect smile. She held out her hand. “Glad you made it.”

“You’re Lucy,” I said. Taking her hand. Her grip was loose.

“Well, of course,” she said. “Who did you expect?” Her voice was as gentle in person as it was over the phone.

“What’s going on here?” I asked. Looking around. “You said you give people the meaning of life. This is a laundromat.”

Lucy giggled and covered her mouth. “Oh, Guy Gilbertson. You of all people know this isn’t just a laundromat — this is where you find answers.”

I sighed. “Look, I’m not in the mood for riddles, Lucy. My neighbor died today. Apparently, he did his laundry here from time to time. I was hoping you could tell me more about him. I don’t know his name, but I know his address.”

Lucy shook her head and said, “Come on, Guy — I know you have questions. They’re not about your neighbor, though. Your questions are about your life and your purpose.” She grabbed a giant orange jug of laundry detergent and shook it. “The answers you seek are in here.”

I tilted my head. “The meaning of life,” I said, “is inside a jug of laundry detergent?”

She nodded and pointed at the washing machine. “Yes, and the washing machine, too.”

I laughed. “Yeah, okay — and my bathtub and body wash open a portal to Jupiter.”

Lucy’s face lost all expression. “There’s the Guy I remember,” she said. “The funny Guy.” Her gentle voice was flattened into a low drone. Then she held up a clear cup under the spout of the detergent and slowly dispensed the thick blue liquid until the cup was full. “Look, I’m getting a little tired of explaining this to you, Guy Gilbertson. You know this laundry detergent is unlike any other laundry detergent in the universe.” She dumped the cup into the machine and poured herself another. “You know what happens when you wash your clothes with this detergent and wear the clothes. You know what happens when you see into the washing machine. And, of course, you know what happens when you put the two together — you will no longer be crippled by the stains on your mind, Guy Gilbertson.”

I felt a pit form in my stomach. She was saying my name too often. “You know what?” I said. Shaking my head. “Forget it. I can’t listen to this anymore. I never should’ve come here. I think you’re a fraud.” I turned around and headed for the door.

“You think I’m a fraud?” Lucy said with a slow laugh. Her voice got deeper. “Well, would a fraud know exactly what happened to you five years ago today?” She reached deep into her pocket and pulled out a foot-long tube wrapped in shiny silver foil.

I stopped, let go of the door, and turned back toward the blue-haired woman in the orange jumpsuit. “How do you know about that?” I asked.

“Divine. Detergent,” she said with a laugh. Pointing her shiny silver tube at the jug. “I know everything about you, Guy Gilbertson. For example, five years ago today. You were hanging out in the office breakroom. Minding your own business. Enjoying your favorite meal — a meatball sub from Enzo’s Delicatessen.” She pinched the silver foil and pulled it down the tube like the zipper of an extravagant dress. “You were savoring every warm bite of toasted bread, marinara, meat, and mozzarella.” She snapped the tube in half. “Until, out of the blue, your girlfriend burst through the door and broke your heart. ‘I don’t love you anymore, Guy,’ she said. I believe those were her exact words, no?” Lucy removed the foil completely. Revealing two halves of the same sandwich — a sopping wet meatball sub from Enzo’s.

“Stop it,” I said.

She opened her mouth and took a bite of her sandwich like a great white shark attacking an Italian submarine. “But it gets better!” she said with her mouth full. “You were so blindsided by the breakup, Guy Gilbertson, that you accidentally choked on your meatball sub. Your face turned red. Your eyes swelled with water. You wrapped your hands around your neck and coughed and spit. But no matter how clear it was that you were about to choke to death, the so-called ‘love of your life’ just stood there and did absolutely nothing to help you.” Lucy burst out laughing. Tiny bits of meatball rained onto the floor.

“I said stop it!” I buried my face in my hands.

“But thank God you fell out of your seat!” Lucy continued. Wiping her face with her sleeve. “Because when you hit the floor, a giant clump of chewed-up meat paste came shooting out your gullet and splattered ALL over the pocket on your favorite white button-down.” She exploded with hysterical laughter. Almost unable to finish the story. “After that, you were too traumatized to go back to work. Your boss fired you. And over the next five years, you barely left your apartment. Why, Guy? Why!”

My legs felt weak. My stomach was in a knot. “I don’t know!”

Suddenly, Lucy’s laughter devolved into the growl of a rabid dog. “Because you couldn’t get the idea out of your head that, maybe, just maybe, the most important person in your life didn’t want you around anymore.”

My chest got tight as I fell to my knees. “She said she didn’t know the Heimlich!”

“Perhaps she didn’t,” Lucy said quietly. Bending over to meet my eyes. “But perhaps she did. You can keep telling yourself whatever stories you want — but at the end of the day, does it really matter?” Lucy whispered in my ear, “It doesn’t have to.” She reached out her arm and held the cup of blue liquid in front of my broken heart.

The sun was setting when I woke up in bed with an orange jug of laundry detergent next to me. Lucy’s business card was taped to the side. It wasn’t a dream, I thought. My neighbor’s pile of clean laundry was still on the floor. Resting on top was a white button-down shirt. The stain was still there, but for the first time in five years, it didn’t bother me at all.

So, I put it on.

I stuffed Lucy’s business card in my shirt pocket and picked up the other white button-down from the floor. I realized I had no idea whose shirt I was wearing. Mine or my neighbor’s.

Then I remembered — my laundry was still in the dryer.

The moment I opened my door, I was instantly consumed by a warm blanket of sunshine. It felt like a giant manta ray wrapped its enormous wings around my entire body. I was weightless. Calm. Easy. Spacious. My mind was empty, yet I was completely conscious of every little detail of every little particle that Space and Time had to offer me at this moment. The weight of the detergent in my hand pulling on each knuckle. The threads of the button-up around my torso hugging each skin cell. Every millisecond that came and went. Every molecule that lived and died. All one-hundred-and-seventy-three steps that collided with the soles of my feet on the way downstairs.

The motion detector flipped on the flickering light.

This time the dryer was silent, but the washing machine was making all sorts of noises. Noises that spanned the entire frequency spectrum. Endless layers of whirring, rumbling, and hissing all colliding with one another. It was a song I had never heard before — a call I never received. So, I answered it.

I sat down in front of the machine, crossed my legs, and looked through the black hole. Somebody was in the middle of a laundry cycle of their own. And somehow, I knew they forgot laundry detergent. Honest mistake, really. So, I left my orange jug on the shelf for them. Then I realized, I couldn’t look away from the wet clothes sloshing around the washing machine.

It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

All at once, I could appreciate every subtle nuance that made this laundry cycle special — what made it different from every other cycle that happened before it, that’s happening during it, or that will happen after it. Never again would there be an identical cycle at any point in time, or anywhere in this existence. Never again would the laundry spin the same way twice.

I smooshed my face against the window and sobbed with pure joy.

Right then and there, I realized my neighbor and I were two parts of the same whole. Leaning on one another like the conscious and unconscious minds of a complete human being. Like the washing and drying units of a complete laundry room.

Then the machine played that gorgeous little melody.

That day, neither my neighbor nor I died of a heart attack. Those two words didn’t even come close — no matter how hard they hit the ground when they fell from the sky. What really happened to us was something far more beautiful. Something far more complex. Something far beyond comprehension.

The two of us were absorbed by the laundry cycle. An intricate system designed for one purpose, and one purpose alone — to renew us. To remove the stains from the fabric of our minds. To give us one more chance to wear our favorite white button-down shirt.

Our cup was no longer empty but filled to the brim — spilling into infinity like a waterfall with no bottom. And all we had to do was relax, pay close attention, and allow this endless feeling to wash over us.