You think you know me...know what I'm about and maybe even what I'll do next, but let me tell you something, Chester...I'm like the laundry mat down on 3rd and Grand. No one wants to go there...but at some point in your life you're gonna end up there. You're gonna end up there on a Sunday, looking like a schmuck with a pocket full of quarters and an armload of your soiled undergarments. You're gonna look around and see you're the only guy there who has even the remotest idea of how to speak English. You're gonna think yourself lucky to find a machine. You're gonna load that machine...you're gonna pour in your detergent and put the coins in the slot...one after another. You'll slam the slot forward and hear it roar to life. The water is gonna fill up the drum and you'll go find a comfy seat. You'll sit and watch the telenovela on the TV that's playing way too loudly for this small space. You'll admire the rack on the overwrought actress as she cries while watching her lover die in her arms. You'll start to wonder if anyone will ever love you that way. Will anyone cry at your deathbed? You're awakened from your personal introspection by two kids fighting over who's turn it is to play with the matchbox car. The mother too busy with folding to chaperone this battle of wills...continues to whittle down the mountain of clothes in front of her. Her face is stern and you can tell she's had it hard for so long that the worry lines in her forehead are permanent. Her hands are rough and strong. You wonder if she's ever had a relaxing day in her whole life. Still, despite all this hardness...you recognize she's got a nice, feminine shape underneath her ratty dress. You purposefully decide to stop objectifying her and turn your attention elsewhere. There's graffiti on the bench you're sitting on but for the life of you...you can't seem to read it. It's always frustrated you how you can't seem to read this jumbled mess of lettering on any of the walls locally. You can't stand that someone is blatantly saying something behind your back...right in your face. You notice a bullet hole in the window behind you. You feel the familiar cone shaped fracture in its surface with your finger and imagine if it were to have happened while you were sitting there...it would've hit you in your lower back. Would it have paralyzed you? Would you be able to live like that? How would you ever have sex again? The thought stones you back to reality. You check on your laundry and find the machine simply filled with water...but it ain't turning, Chester. Everyone who comes here knows not to use that machine...but you're not from around here, are ya guy? You see, Chester...I'm that laundry mat. You thought you knew me...you thought you knew what I was about...but look at you now...standing there like some jerkoff with a pile of dirty, sopping wet chonies wondering what to do next. Go ahead Chester...put some more coins in another machine. Roll the dice...see how your luck runs with me.
