Mrs. Mickey's Laundromat

It was a beautiful Saturday morning and I heard my mother yelling up the stairs for me to get up. I reluctantly got out of bed, it was already stifling in my room and I didn't relish the thought of going to the laundromat that morning. Mom told everyone to bring their dirty clothes downstairs and as dutiful, obedient children we all did. The clothes were all dumped unceremoniously onto the middle of the living room floor, we then started sorting them into various piles of whites, colored and darks. When we were all finished with the sorting process we had eleven baskets filled.

The boys then loaded them into the trunk of our mother's extremely large pink Buick Electra with the overflow filling up the backseat. I was not looking forward to an afternoon stuck in a hot and muggy laundromat washing, folding and resorting tons of laundry. This was one hated weekly chore that usually was relegated to me as the youngest girl in my family to carry out. My mother would have a racing form, a newspaper, and a cold bottle of pop while she sat in the comfort area provided and waited for me to completed this assigned task. I never felt slighted or put upon because my elder sisters all had to to this task at one time and now it was my turn, it didn't mean I loved the job just that I knew it was a job that had to be done, especially if i wanted clean clothes to wear.

Mom and I got into the car and she started driving down "Dog Street" which is the nickname for the road we lived on at our Rez. It was Dog Street because of the the inordinate amount of dogs that ran around loose, wild, and free each day, like I yearned to be that summer morning. We headed up towards the city with our destination being Mrs. Mickey's Laundromat on Military Road. A place I abhorred because of Mrs Mickey, she was probably in her late sixties and would invariably have on her short all occasion mini skirt, a tube top, a nappy blonde wig, and bright red lipstick smudged on in the general vicinity of her lips, as she tried mightily to beautify herself. All of her pale and wrinkly skin on display for all the world to see, eewww. Mrs. Mickey would speak so condescendingly to my mom, always with some derogatory comment about "those dirty Indians", or worse yet Mrs. Mickey would say something about someone my mom knew, and she knew everyone from the rez.

Earl who was either Mrs. Mickey's boy toy or perhaps just her maintenance man, was always limping around the periphery. He seemed to enjoyed eyeing all the gitch and assorted foundation wear as I loaded them into the washing machines. He stank of a combination of urine and old cigars. He had a clubfoot, a cauliflower ear and was always chomping on a nasty cigar butt. He had Herman Munster boots with one sole an inch thick and the other at least four inches thick. I would always go and stand next to my mother if he ever approached me and tried to mumble something to me.

On this particular summer morning my mom was not in the mood for any of Mrs. Mickey's prejudicial shit. We got there and I carried in all eleven baskets and started to load up the extra large washers that held two to three loads each. I started up the first few washers and then my mom went to the counter to ask Mrs. Mickey for some change so we could start the rest. She seemed to be taking longer than usual and I started to walk towards her to find out why. Then the yelling started, apparently Mrs. Mickey had accused my mom of using slugs in her washing machines. That did not sit too well with my mother who was never one to filter her thoughts or withhold a smack down from anyone she thought needed one.

My mom reached across the counter with a right hook that would rival any heavy weight boxer's of the day. Mrs. Mickey's nappy wig went flying off her head and the fight was on. My mom threw down the gloves as she proceeded to let Mrs. Mickey have it. I think the worse memory from that day was Mrs. Mickey's in a headlock under my mom's bingo wing as as was being pummeled. Her tube top was down around her waist and her boobs hanging to her knees, with each right hook her whole body shook and the boobs would sway in unison. If only I had a sharp stick to erase that memory from my eyes.

Very shortly the police were on the scene. The final outcome was that we had to leave and my mom was banned from Mrs. Mickey's for life. I remember pulling the clothes out of the machines and the water dripping all over the linoleum floor, and having to haul out the now heavier baskets of soaking wet clothes to the car. We then drove to Pierce and 18th Street to another laundromat and I had to go through the processes in reverse, again. By the time we got home with the laundry all washed, folded and sorted I was exhausted both physically and mentally from all the shenanigans I had witnesses that day. Needless to day, life with my mom was never dull.