Laundry day in Tishomingo. I don’t have a washer or dryer so I head to the laundromat. It doesn’t have a name, it’s just “The Laundromat.” There’s no one else here. The lights weren’t even on when I walked in. Parts of the ceiling have collapsed. On first glance I thought it might be abandoned. There is a vending machine that says “laundry aids” in that playful 60s font used for Hanna-Barberra cartoon, features mid-century abstract splatter effect daisies. There’s nothing in it. An austere black sign prohibits oil field mechanic’s grease soiled clothing. The oil fields apparently went bust years ago. There is no change machine so I had to walk over to the gas station that sells knives and throwing stars to get quarters. The machines groan in protest but struggle to life when prompted. There’s something heroic about this place. Something deeply human. Clean. To be clean. I like to imagine a shattered landscape decades hence. Bandits roam about in improvised vehicles. First came the droughts, then the wildfires. The dust and ash gets everywhere. The Laundromat is mostly destroyed at this point but a few machines call out, to a solitary figure picking through the rubbish, “Hey, it’s okay. Let’s get you in here, get you out of those clothes, get you clean.”
