Two men are already in the laundromat. The talkative one is tall and thin, dressed in a button down shirt tucked into office-appropriate pants. He has an old gentleman farmer air about him, the kind of man who could wear a rattan cowboy hat without irony. His friend is quiet, shorter and plumper, and dressed more casually, like he’s ready for gym class.
I pour my dirty clothes into a washer.
He used to be a preacher. Or maybe he wants to be a preacher. Either way, I can tell; he has launched into a lengthy, vehement sermon.
I’m waiting for my laundry to dry.
“Leading was Moses’s calling. What’s your calling?”
“I don’t know,” I answer automatically, only half listening.
“You don’t know?!”
His astonishment snaps me into the present. “I guess it’s writing,” I admit. I’m not used to being questioned by strangers about my purpose in life.
I check my clothes. Still damp. I flick another quarter into the slot and press “Start.”
He got shot. Gang violence. From that, he learned that he needed to get out of the city, lead a new lifestyle. His story would make a good after school special, but I don’t think people make those anymore.
I’m folding towels.
His laundry is folded and bagged. He tells me that he works as a counselor at the Community Center. Points to his name tag to prove it.
“I’ve gotta get going,” he says.
“Okay.”
His friend takes a seat on the other side of the room. I guess he’s heard this line before.
I’m folding my pants.
He asks where I’m staying. At a park west of town. He tells me there’s a nice motel in town. Lists the amenities: microwave, kitchen, TV… And it’s not expensive- maybe $80 a night. In fact, he has a brochure in his car.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m camping. I don’t think I could afford the motel, anyway.”
“I’ll get you the brochure,” he says, and walks to the parking lot.
“It’s nice,” his friend assures me. Echos a list of the establishment’s finer points.
I’m folding shirts.
The talkative one comes back in, hands me the brochure. I thank him out of politeness.
They’re going to a cookout this afternoon. Or maybe they’re hosting a cookout. Whichever it is, they need to go. “Have a good day!” I call out.
I’m matching up pairs of socks.
They’re going to grill outside, barbecue. They mention where this get-together will occur, and don’t explicitly invite me, but it sounds like if I wanted to, I could stop by. He asks enough questions to drag out of me that I’m vegetarian.
Please leave before I get to my underwear, I silently beg. [Yes, I fold underwear.]
He seems receptive to ESP. We exchange pleasantries, and the men actually leave this time.
It occurs to me that this may be the first time someone has ever asked me what my calling is. And it may be first time I’ve stated it out loud. A few minutes later, I leave, too, with a basket of clean clothes and a reminder my greater purpose.