A gentleman sat on a bench outside a laundromat. I figured he was in his late sixties, on the road to retirement. His hair was combed back in a slick fashion. He wore a sports jacket and I noticed his expensive boat shoes, the kind I figured one might get from L.L. Bean. He took long puffs from his Cohiba cigar.
“Hi there,” I greeted haphazardly, juggling my plastic container of clothes as I took small steps towards the door. He offered to open it for me.
“Ah, it’s OK. I’ve got it!” I went inside, dropping coins in two machines, organizing the loads. There was no one else in the laundromat.
I picked up a magazine from the rack, an old issue of People – good for the latest gossip on Paris and Britney – and headed outside for some fresh air. The two hours I spent at the laundromat were a welcome respite from my daily routine of deadlines, legal agreements, phone calls. I fell into a daydream of California.
The Cuban aroma permeated my space. The gentleman was engrossed in the Globe and Mail, but he somehow sensed that I had turned towards him. He lowered his newspaper.
“Nice day, eh?”
“Yeah,” I answered, still curious about why he was at the laundromat. I’d gone here for the past two years. I’d never seen him. He didn’t really belong. This was a zone for university students; twentysomethings whose apartments were lacking in some of life’s conveniences, and the occasional street folk.
“I just got back from a camping trip. We went up to Bon Echo Park. Ever bee there?”
This seemed to catch his attention. He put the newspaper down and looked straight at me.
“I haven’t gone camping in years. And no, I don’t think I’ve ever been to Bon Echo.” He paused, and then continued. “I just got back from a trip to Dubai. We only go to hotels – the nicest hotels. I don’t think I can ever go back to camping.”
“So, I’m just curious, and by the way, I’m Kenneth.” We shook hands and he introduced himself as Jim. “What are you doing here?”
Jim took a long drag from his cigar. I almost asked him if he had another Cohiba, but thought better of it.
“My son’s in university here. I don’t think he knows how to do laundry, or maybe he’s just too lazy. We spoiled him too much. His place is a total disaster. I spend an hour driving from Toronto to Waterloo every other Saturday because it’s the only time I ever get to see him. So I do his laundry.” Jim fumbled in his pocket for his wallet and pulled out a worn business card. I stared at it for a moment. I was talking to the owner of a yacht company.
“I’ve been all around the world, seen a lot. And you know what really matters?”
“No,” I responded, softly.
“I think about death sometimes. At the end of the day, when I’m on some bed in a hospital, and my face is turned to the guy beside me, I will not be talking about yachts, about money, or any of that shit.”
I looked across the street, witnessing all these students in line at the bus stop, waiting. We do so much waiting in life. And I was waiting for my load to finish.
Jim caught my distracted look and made a gesture with his hands, saying in a loud voice, “I will talk about my son. I think he’ll pull through and be a success. He just needs to grow up. And then I’ll talk about all my adventures, most of which happened around your age. And finally, I’ll talk about all the women I slept with.”
I burst out laughing.
Jim rubbed his wedding ring.
My cell phone started ringing. Time for the dryer.
“So why are you here?” Jim called as I got up and headed inside.
“I know this sounds crazy. I’ve got laundry at my apartment, but I still come here. I guess this is the one place where I don’t have interruptions, where I can just be free to think.”
I held the door open, recognizing my words.
This was an interruption. I’ll have to plan more of those.
I smiled back at Jim, as if to say thanks.
