Meknes, Morocco.
No. Not tonight. I don’t have the strength. Come on, laundry card machine. Be cool. Just do this for me once, and I swear I won’t be back for another three weeks. Please. Please just accept this ten-dollar bill, and credit it to my card, and let me go wash my undies.
I don’t get what your problem is. You’re an 18 by 12 inch metal box in the basement of my building, the same color as the wall. Your sole function in this world is to accept ten- and twenty-dollar bills – only ten- and twenty-dollar bills! – and magically transfer their value to the little plastic card that goes into the washing machine. It’s not a hard job. You are not asked for much. And yet every three weeks I stand before you powerless, futilely hoping I’ve at last found a bill that meets your unattainably high standards. I run my fingers over them like they are the Queen’s linens, unfurling the corners and smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of Andrew Jackson’s visage, and you spit my money back out like a petulant child. Is this a power trip for you? Do you need to show the Coke machine that you’re a big deal too? What?
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Please, don’t reject this one – damn.
You don’t know what I went through to get you this ten. Not to get ten dollars – this ten-dollar bill. I had three fives and four singles in my wallet. Enough for nine loads of laundry, by my count. But that’s not good enough for you. Only tens and twenties for my wall-mounted princess. I went to a Duane Reade, a CVS and two delis before I found someone willing to part with a Hamilton.
And it’s laundry day. Do you know how a bodega cashier looks at you when you roll up in your husband’s last clean undershirt and the gym shorts with the saggy seat, rambling on about a ten-dollar bill? Like you’re a crackhead. He looks at you like you want that money for illegal drugs. It’s not fun.
Looky here. This little sticker says that soon you’ll only take the “new” bills. Oh, that’s rich.
Okay. I am going to try this one last time. I am going to smooth this bill as flat as a new dryer sheet. I am going to take a deep breath and feed it to you one more time, edges perfectly perpendicular to your surface. I will accept the things I cannot change, and pray for the wisdom not to rip you from the wall if this doesn't work.
Oh my God. You took it. Thank you. Thank you! You don’t know what this means to me. I’m going to do my laundry. I’m going to stake out that corner washer, load it to the brim with socks and t-shirts, and God help anyone in this building who opens up the lid before the spin cycle is finished.
Except I just realized something.
I’m out of detergent.
