The light above the third machine is flickering. It has been all night. The owner never said where the supply closet was. And it would look bad to call the boss on the first shift. But, god, it’s annoying. It’s starting to give me a headache.
The old lady — who is wearing what looks like three different dresses, all different colors and patterns, the warmest looking shawl the world has ever seen, and bright blue sandals — starts pulling an assortment of odd garments out of the sixth faded pink and green machine. She is the only person doing laundry at 2:50 AM on this mundane Tuesday night.
The old lady neatly tucks her laundry into a pink metal rolling cart, and exits without acknowledging me behind the counter. I watch as she rolls her cart over the curb that’s an inch too high; she loses a pair of blue and yellow striped socks that I make a note to pocket on my way out. I was left alone once more in the silence of the laundromat.
Then the silence broke. From the second row of machines, the farthest spot from the counter, the sound of loud, hypnotic music came pouring out of thin air. Followed by the sweet sounds of laughter and chatter, weaving together. And suddenly a person pops into view, right behind the seventeenth machine. The person's eyes met mine, and for a brief moment we are locked in place, staring into one another's eyes. They are wearing some sort of neon, sequin skirt that catches the light just right, covering the room with glowing little spots of pink, making them appear to be some otherworldly being. Then, the person waves awkwardly, mumbles a slight hello, and hurries out the front door.
In utter disbelief of what I just saw, I timidly creep out from behind the counter, and peer into the second row. There is nothing, spare a few dryer sheets that had been kicked absentmindedly under a dryer. Not satisfied with what is found, my hand makes its way to the door of machine seventeen, where I presume that person had appeared out of. Slowly, I pull open the thick plastic door.
In a quick burst of light, colors stream out as rays of crimson and magenta blind my vision. Loud club music fills my ears, though there is something off with the tune. It is composed of sounds – or maybe it’s the instruments – I have never heard before. My eyes, having finally adjusted to the searing light, can see that the inside of this washing machine has somehow filled with people – no – creatures. Most are humanoid in shape, but something is off with the details. Some of their skin is dull green, some have eyes on the side of their heads. A herd of alien people dance together surrounded by flashing LED lights. At the center of the room is a podium of sorts and atop it a being composed of cool metallic tentacles appears to be, what I can only assume, is DJ-ing.
My body seems to be repelled out of pure shock by the scene. I fall backwards, slamming my head against the seventh machine and slamming the machine closed with it. Then, silence. My heartbeat fills my ears as I try to catch my breath. My hands press firmly to the cold tiles on the ground as the rest of my body shakes. Eventually, my breathing evens out and I sit straighter. I move to look back into machine seventeen but from behind me – I swear – that’s the sound of waves. Slowly redirecting myself to the machine behind me, I raise a shaking hand to open machine seven instead.
The smell is what hits me first. A mix of briney salt and rotten fish fills my nose as I take in what is before me. A beach of electric blue sand and a sea of intense, almost artificial, orange liquid. There stood one man on the beach, his back facing me. He wears a blue and white striped shirt and dark pants cuffed around his knees. A white hat, with a black brim, rests on his head. Maybe a sailor. Who knows. What is happening? What is happening? Seems to be the only phrase my brain can conjure. I have a full blown headache now, either cause I’ve banged it against a few washing machines or because that light is still flickering. My first night on the job and a person crawls out of a nightclub and there’s a sailor at the beach in another machine. And suddenly a wave of nausea overwhelms me as a thought stabs its way into my head.
I leap forward and start frantically ripping the doors open on all the machines. Holy shit. Machine 6: a library, filled beyond my sight of rows and rows of old, thick books – some books are floating from one shelf to another. Machine 9: a damp, dark enormous cave, with seemingly no beginning or end. Machine 14: a penthouse suite overlooking a dystopian city, billboards lining the buildings advertising all kinds of products in a language completely foreign to me.
My head is spinning. I have lost complete control over my breathing again. What is happening. What is happening. And then everything goes black. I open my eyes to see a dozen dryer sheets tightly stuffed into a crack. Hazily, I peel my face and body off the ground and see the first machine in front of me. I close my eyes, giving myself just a second to process half of the absurdity that has been tonight. This couldn’t possibly get any stranger. I mumbled to myself as, practically, a prayer.
Upon opening the door, my eyes can’t decide what to focus on. Spiraling streams of royal blues and rich purples ripple through a dimly lit, huge, tan stone room. Within the streams I can almost make out words. Images. I’m not sure. Everythings is out of focus. I can’t quite see what is before me, it appears the ribbons of color have created a thick film around whatever is inside of them. What I can see, with certainty, lies in the center of the room. Atop a mound of murky spheres, pilled at least a mile high, sit a beast curled within itself. A being covered in gray chrome-like scales, with spikes protruding from its head to the tip of its tail, and long teeth that jutted out of its mouth, is creature that looks like it could swallow the sun, but it doesn’t look dangerous per say, I don’t feel in danger, it looks calm, it looks peaceful, it’s sleeping – I mean it is about 3:00 AM at this point so it makes sense, however I don't really know how the mechanics of these portals or whatever the fuck is going on right now, anyway – but unlike the other machines, I dared to look further in, slowly pushing my head forward, ever so slightly, to get a closer look at what I was seeing and it’s like something clicks, like I put on a pair of glasses and I can make out what is being said, what is being shown, throughout these streams and within those orbs are memories; there are some first steps over there, an alarming amount of passwords seemingly everywhere, here a birthday, an essay, a test, a breakup, your keys, every corner that my eyes can make out is covered in forgotten memories, and the beast sits atop them all.
And the longer I stare at this image, the more I seem to lose sight of what I was supposed to be doing tomorrow. And now I can't remember my mom's birthday. Now I don't even remember why I'm here. I don't remember what I'm looking at. And it feels like I could stay in this room forever. And it seems that those streams would be cozy enough to curl up forever. And suddenly some small part of my brain decides to fight back against whatever is happening here, I pull my head out as I notice one of those eyes, sunken into that thick, reflective head, begins to open.
I regain my composure, I walk back to the front counter and, without a second thought, grab my purse and run out the front door. I almost lose my footing to the curb as I fumble for my car keys, beelining for the gray Acura parked around the corner. And as I drive off, not having bothered to turn any music on, I can’t help but think that I forgot to do something.