I was in a new state at a new school and needed something solid to stand on: a place to feel grounded. I also needed to do laundry, so I walked to a nearby self-service laundry and stuffed a machine with my clothes. As I struggled to close the washer door, the woman working behind the counter told me to give it a good hit with my hand. The washer did its job, yet even after an hour, the dryer seemed to have barely warmed my clothes. I left, having decided to air-dry them on my car in the August heat.
A month later, I learned her name was Sandy, which she told me after I'd helped her stop a washing machine from moving across the floor. I was grading poems at a table when one of the washers broke loose and skipped an inch into the air. I jumped to the machine and held on while she unplugged it. The next week, Sandy told me dryer No.8 was the fastest.
It went on like this. I'd do laundry once a week, usually Thursday or Friday. Sandy worked Tuesday through Saturday and we'd talk small while I folded clothes. She told me about her son and his grades, the new dog they'd just adopted. She was fascinated that I was studying poetry. She teased (开玩笑) that it was harder making a living as a poet than as a laundry attendant. Even then I knew she was probably right.
I began to recognize others there: workers taking breaks by the door, a mother and her baby, and even some delivery drivers. But Sandy was the center of my community. For nearly three years and almost every week, I'd do laundry and talk with her. We checked on each other and expected the other to be there. We asked where the other had gone when we missed a week. There was a note of concern for the other's absence, a note of joy at their return.
I'd found a place to stand on solid ground.