Detergent in hand, our fearless reporter attempts to find the perfect place to wash his clothes

by Joe Tarr

In between munches on their chicken wings, they were screaming at each other. There were three of them, and I guess they were a family. There was a guy with a ballcap and a graying beard, who spoke with a nasal whine and paced the floor (the patriarch of the bunch, I assumed). A young, tall, and brawny woman leaned against a washing machine, her short hair matted down with grease, a clump or two pointing off her scalp (the grown daughter, maybe). She readily engaged her father in a verbal brawl, bristling at his insults and baiting him with her own. An older woman (the mother?) with long brown curly hair covered with a knit cap sat against the window, giggling at her companions. When their antics reached vitriolic levels, the mother let out a deep sigh that suggested she'd endured years of this stuff.

They scared me a little, so when I walked into the laundromat on Woodland Avenue, I deliberately chose the washers on the opposite side. At a distance, they were interesting to watch. So these are the redneck East Tennesseans I've heard so much about since moving to the South, I thought. Entertainment quickly turned to annoyance and fear when they moved their wet clothes to the dryers surrounding me. I was trapped.

Up close, I could smell the chicken grease on their clothes. The shouts were getting louder and more ridiculous. The father and the daughter yelled at each other with increasing fervor, each word meant to humiliate, to devastate, but in their growing agitation the put-downs grew only more fatuous. "You're an idiot!" the father screamed at the grown daughter. "I know you are but what am I?" she retorted.

I gazed across the room at the only other patron—a quiet guy with his son, folding shirts—hoping for some solidarity, a nod that meant, "Yeah, these people are really nuts." He refused to look our way.

Their shouting choked off after about 10 minutes, the two apparently too exhausted to go on.

Finally, I heard the long "peep" indicating the time on my dryers ran out. The clothes were still damp, but I tossed them into my basket and fled.

Just another day at the laundromat.

Most people I know hate them—dull, stuffy places where life is reduced to 26-minute wash cycles and 10-minute drying spurts. These places test the limits of human endurance: dried clumps of powdered Tide; hair strands in the lips of the washers; dusty floors; the oily, mechanical smell of an industrial drier holding the limp remains of a used fabric softener sheet. None of that compares to the intense boredom you must endure every time you enter the doors. But for many, like me, they are an unavoidable part of life; you want to wear clean clothes, you air your dirty laundry in public.

Knoxville has 11 self-serve laundromats listed in the Yellow Pages, and probably many more that don't bother to advertise. I haven't tried them all. But is the perfect laundromat out there somewhere? A place where the floors are lint-free, the snack machines are full, and the video games are still operating—where you can bond with your fellow laundryroomless Knoxvillians? Can such a washer wonderland really exist? This was the quest I set for myself: to find a laundromat I could commit to for all my washing needs. It's been a long and arduous search.

Colors

I wear some odd looking underwear. I have glow-in-the-dark "I Love You" drawers and green ones covered with four-leaf clovers. There are pairs with the Tasmanian Devil, Porky Pig, and Daffy Duck.

My mom made them. I'm not ashamed to admit I wear these, and will even show them off to friends. But there is something disconcerting about taking them to the laundromat feeling the stares of little kids and old men as I hurriedly fold them.

This afternoon, I've chosen the right laundromat at which to wash them: Cedar Bluff Homestyle Cleaners. Today, it is largely the territory of moms.

They stand there folding tiny shirts and socks while their children take over the little lounge area in front of the television, which broadcasts a soap opera. An infant wearing a Minny Mouse shirt and sucking a pacifier stares at me as I walk to the change machine to convert $5 into 20 quarters.

This nursery atmosphere is countered a bit by a few single guys. One tall, skinny blond man with a cigarette dangling from his lips scowls at everyone. I don't mind collecting smoke on my clothes in bars or diners and will even let friends light up in my living room, if they must (I kicked the habit myself not long ago). But why in the hell do people insist on smoking in laundromats, tainting others' freshly Bounce-scented wardrobes, especially when it is not raining or snowing or cold outside, but a beautiful, sunny day? I scowl back at the evil smoker man.

ENTERTAINMENT:
Try your hand at Ms. Pacman or watch Sally Jesse Raphael expunge those painful childhood memories as she did on "Why Did You Bully Me?"—complete with a tearful recounting from a British gent about how his daughter committed suicide after endless taunts from classmates.

CLEANLINESS:
Mom would be proud.

PEOPLE WATCHING:
Unless you like watching kids screaming and crawling over each other, bring a magazine.

Linens

When I saw the dogwood flowers painted on the windows, I thought I was headed for the plushest of laundromats. Located in Downtown West, you'd expect only the best from Kleen Mart Cleaners and Coin Laundry.

Inside, it's a different story. About half the dryers and washing machines, and the lone change machine, are out of order. The two Maytag washers that I chose look identical in all respects, each with a digital display. But for some reason, one gives me a 41-minute cycle for $1.25 while the other gives me a 28-minute cycle for the same price.

There are several video games in the back, but don't think about playing them because they're either broken or unplugged. It's kind of sad walking around the poorly lit back of the building, amongst the blackened, dusty video games: Route 16, Jungle King, Qix, and Rip Off. I wonder if they miss all the kids who used to bang their buttons, and in my boredom, I long to plunk a quarter into one of them.

The only two that work are Phoenix, which has a slightly distorted screen, and some helicopter game where you have to fly into enemy territory and rescue hostages. (I couldn't figure out how to turn the stupid helicopter in the right direction and quickly crashed three times into the ground, wasting my quarter, and abandoning hundreds of tiny electronic POWs behind enemy lines.)

With the electronic entertainment failing me, I turned to the table of magazines in the lounge area. Mainly they were women's magazines like Family Circle, Ladies Home Journal, and Elle. Oddly, placed amongst these were the July 1971 issue of Interiors, a decorating magazine with an article called "At Home With Cubistic Perspectives," and an issue of American Trucker.

On this afternoon there is no one here. Just a woman in an Army Mom sweatshirt (another rude smoker) who pages impatiently through a magazine while she waits for her bed spread to dry. The attendant walks around barefoot as she washes clothes other people have dropped off.

Only 15 minutes to go before my wash is done—and God knows how long before its dry. I thump my head against the wall behind my chair.

ENTERTAINMENT:
Bring a book.

CLEANLINESS:
It would probably be dirtier if the machines worked and people actually used the place.

PEOPLE WATCHING:
What people?

Bright Colors

Ally McBeal has dragged Georgia into a quiet office to share a cup of cappuccino. Georgia's problem, Ally tells her, is that she enjoys coffee the way most men enjoy sex—quick and dirty. You must take the time to savor your cappuccino, she lectures, making each time a new experience that will freshen your spirits and sensuality. Then McBeal leads her through a cappuccino orgasm, as they sniff and relish the aroma and steam, denying themselves the craved sip. Finally it comes, and it is warm and creamy, better than they imagined, and it doesn't end there. They sip again, slow and deliberate, prolonging the rush. From the doorway, male lawyers secretly watch the ceremony, their wide eyes enchanted by Ally's and Georgia's mouths and tongues.

I'm sipping a $1 Budweiser draft and watching the tube, and I have forgotten all about laundry. I am at the bar of Buds 'N Suds. Two frat-looking guys are playing chess at the other end, and one of them blurts out something about beating off and giggles.

It's not your typical laundromat, and though it isn't perfect, I'm quite happy here paying the 25 cents more than the going rate for a wash. My only real complaint is that it closes too early.

ENTERTAINMENT:
A large color TV, board games, pinball, music, beer, and a bar counter that glows—I had trouble focusing.

CLEANLINESS:
Who cares how clean it is—they've got $1 drafts!

PEOPLE WATCHING:
There's lots of cute twentysomething boys and girls to gaze at and maybe you'll fall in love.

Wools

A short jaunt east of the Holston River on Strawberry Plains, in the rural community of Ramsey, set just off the road, is a building with a plain black-on-white sign: "Coin Laundry." It is sandwiched between two red "Enjoy Coca-Cola" advertisements.

An old guy in suspenders and cap sits out front listening to his truck radio broadcast a ball game while his wife tends to the washing inside. But all back-country stereotypes end there—there's something seedy about this place.

For starters, all the windows and doors are shielded by both chain-link fence and chicken wire—enough to stop even the most determined mob from breaking in and suggesting that rural life has its share of unsettling moments. Later, I hear a woman ask another if there was a shooting here last week. (She said no.)

Inside, the vending machines are similarly shrouded by gates. There is nothing in here to keep your mind off of your chores, just a litany of signs warning of all sorts of hazards and forbidding customers to do just about anything might seem fun in a place like this: Do Not Put Rubber or Plastic Articles in the Dryer, No Pets Allowed, No Alcoholic Beverages, In the Event of Hazardous Road Conditions We Will Be Closed, (and my favorite) Use Washers and Dryers at Your Own Risk (are they going to burn up my clothes and spit acid in my face?). There's also a sign that says, "Do Not Sit On Folding Tables or Washing Machines." One little girl showed her contempt for this strictness by promptly climbing on top of a washing machine when she arrived with her mother.

ENTERTAINMENT:
I spent part of the time watching a cockroach crawl around the floor.

CLEANLINESS:
I don't think they've swept in a while, but I could imagine worse.

PEOPLE WATCHING
They're friendly, but get off the washing machine and stop slouching.

I haven't washed clothes for two weeks. I come home exhausted to find my hamper overflowed, a pile of clothes almost as high lying next to it.

I drive again to the Woodland coin laundry, which despite my bad experience, is clean enough and open 24 hours. Joining me here today is a middle-aged man who hobbles around with cane because of an apparent back injury, a scruffy looking guy in his 20s, and an older man. None of us speak. From different corners of the room, we stare blankly in front of us.

This monotony is erupted by the same family that chased me away from here before. The father and daughter are at each others' throats as they walk in the door. The other patrons gawk at them in bemused silence.

That's when I realize that maybe this family isn't at all crazy. Perhaps people like this—the ones who seem genuinely nuts or unstable—are the only ones with the nerve to rebel against the tyranny of boredom and routine—thus livening up laundromats. They inject risk, uncertainty, fear, possibility (the essence of life) into the mundane.

With this in mind, I try to enjoy the show.