...a poster on the wall during afternoon laundry across from nabolom bakery at the elmwood cleaners in berkeley, california...
"Humanity is the washerwoman of society that wrings out its dirty laundry in tears."
-Karl Kraus-
My mouth cradling a gum cutting crunchy focaccia I watched the cold moon set on yet another adventure to the laundromat. I could have a decade ago committed to getting both washer and dryer into my current home. We had the space (a back room), the hose (a hose), and the need (save time and money) to make this happen. Yet the errandy allure of spinning dirty quarters down the sticky slots of poorly maintained metal washboxes calls my midmorning fingers.
What can a man gain from avoiding the comforts of janitorial independence? What secrets lie within these pachinko-esque worlds of skunky sock and sweat-pitted tees?
The world of laundroing in public spaces is a world filled with potential. The potential for mystery, criminal enterprise, dirty secrets, financial impropriety and in my case that cold Wednesday morning, the opportunity to find one of the greatest pieces of art in human history.
Tucked above the free periodicals, between two garbage cans and an 18 year old, barely legal lint ball, she hung.
Albino-shaded staring out through the plastic cover that kept her undusted but browning all these many years, I paused and made eye contact.
She responded well to my piercing glare, and my bleach filled brain sputtered between hot or cold choices, clean or dirty choices, wet or dry choices and heard a gentle purr…
“take a step back”
Under command of the moment, and out of change for the quartermaker I obeyed.
“Gasp!” I gasped.
A fine purr indeed. With my casual but controlled backstepping, the picture became much clearer. A white kitten had arrived and brought with it a fluttering hummingbird, or dove, or a flag-winged-casper-tailed-horn-toothed-chicken-footed-blarney-toed cotton slype. I was enraptured, erasured, in diapers and full crossword. Who was this motley crew of crusty sheeted dream logic entering me from the wall of this laundromat?
Her name must have been Ramona. It wasn’t, but it must have been. The cat was Gerome, but would only let me call him Chim-Chim-Hiss-Hiss-I’ll-Kill-You. The bird type thing was a nameless unknown wanderer named Whisper Piss who lived decades for a few couple of years selling strange seeds to a cult of kangaroos in Piscapal, ID, WY. This was our moment. Here we could drink aura and wine, prepare for an apocalypse of soggy yachts and failed canned tuna dinners.
I chewed my teeth, stroking my crumbled low-heat-dried tees and tapered jeans to the table in front of me and stared deeper. With each press of the fold I sucked thicker to the messages my mess laid out for me.
Man. Woman. Cat. Bird. Fish. Shirt. Pants. Socks. Patrignani.
Their name was labeled to the poster like the warning of some other date, some time, some other moment I would be forced to try again and again as I repeat my journeys to this washed kingdom. Get clean. Get dressed. Quit seeking a bit of meaning amongst the heaps of hands tossing soiled sundries into meaty metal orifices thirsty for a swish of stink and spit.
I’d seek it out years later. In the year 2022, approximately exactly today at this point in time, I’d figure out the meaning of this hieroglyph. The internet is no real friend to honest discovery, but the signature on the passionate poster tracks to one Libero Patrignani, a fine artist who specializes in airbrushing. According to his own CV he currently works as an illustrator, primarily in the editorial and advertising fields, and as a furniture designer. According to the internet he has nothing but holy shit paintings such as…
There is much much more to be seen over at the master’s chamber. Whether you seek sanity through the zodiac, comfort in cats, or you, like foreigner, just want to know what love is, I encourage you to go Patrignani yourself.
You could buy a washer/dryer combo, clean your coveralls on an old tin washtub, or simply live life unbathed as a rotting scamp disco dancing the flashing coloured floors of adventure. But without a cleansing trip to your local laundromat you might never feel what it is like to be eye banged by a fluffy cat and his psychic mistress. Pack a saggy sack of your filth and wander down the fourth avenue of life to your nearest washeteria. May the detergent stained checkerboard floors and bland sticky stucco walls unfold for you a future unspotted and unscented.
Man. Woman. Cat. Bird. Fish. Shirt. Pants. Socks. Patrignani.
Such a fun read and wonderful curation of Patrignani work! Almost makes me want to visit a laundromat again.