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September 1982
Balancing the laundry basket against her body with one hand, Elaine Corbin reached out with the other to trip the light switch on the wall. As the overhead fluorescent lights came to life, the twenty-three year old brunette quickly brought that hand back, grabbing the side of the plastic carrier before it could fall to the floor. Once she had a secure hold, she carried the basket to the worktable in the center of the room and laid it down on top.
The clock on the wall read a quarter to midnight and, as Elaine had expected at this late hour, she had the laundry room all to herself. That was at least one advantage, she told herself, of not having a date for Friday night. Not that she'd had that many dates at all in recent months.
When she had moved into the small Carroll Gardens' apartment building a month ago, Elaine had been thrilled to find that it had a laundry room, something her old place in Cobble Hill had lacked. She certainly wasn't going to miss the weekly trips to the Suds N Wash, a six block walk from her apartment.
With three coin operated washers and an equal number of commercial dryers, each lining opposite walls, Elaine hadn't initially expected any problem finding a convenient time to do her laundry. After all, there were only nine apartments in the building and, even if most people preferred to do it in the early evenings or on the weekends, that left plenty of time during the less desirable hours. Or so she had thought.
Shortly after she'd moved in, one of the washers had broken down and, after a wait several days for a repairman, was found to need a new part. Given that the machine was more than a decade old, the part was one that had to be specially ordered and, according to the notice taped to the machine, that would take at least two or three weeks. As a result, every time Elaine had come down to do her laundry, there always seemed to be two or three people already there.
'Well, at least I've got the place to myself now,' Elaine thought as, after wheeling over one of the rolling metal wash tubs, she began to transfer her clothes into it.
Normally, Elaine would've separated the white and colors into two separate loads, but that would've meant that she'd have to use both of the remaining machines and that really wasn't a great idea. It wasn't so much the added cost as the fact that the washer on the far left of the room, the oldest of the three, had a reputation for doing a really crappy job getting your clothes clean. The one time she had used it, she'd had to redo the entire load in one of the other machines. When she had complained to the landlord's representative in the building, he merely directed her to the large Rules of the Laundry Room sign that hung on the wall -- specifically, to the lines that read, 'use at your own risk' and 'no refunds'.
So she wheeled the wash bin over to the remaining machine, the one on the far right, only to find, when she opened the lid of the top loading washer, that someone else's wet clothes were already in it. Obviously someone had loaded it earlier and then left the machine to run on its own, despite other lines on the rules poster that both prohibited leaving machines unattended and warned that clothing left overnight might be discarded.
Regardless of what the sign said, Elaine didn't think anyone would actually do that -- she certainly knew that she wouldn't. Instead, she rolled over another of the metal tubs and began moving the damp clothing into it. Having stopped at the bank for a roll of quarters in anticipation of doing the wash tonight, Elaine decided to be a good neighbor and use some of the extra coins to run the colorful load through one of the dryers.
As she continued to empty the machine, she wondered who the laundry belonged to. It clearly belonged to a woman, one with excellent taste in clothes, she observed, as she glanced at each piece before tossing it in the tub. Elaine had only met half the tenants in the building so far, and none of them seemed the type to have such an expensive wardrobe. She also noticed the absence of any male clothing, which probably meant that the woman was single.
There was one last article at the bottom of the washer drum, a bunched up bit of purple cloth that appeared to be stuck on the bottom of the agitator. Elaine had to use one of the small wooden step stools to reach down to free it, but once she did, she held it up between two extended hands.
'This is nice,' she thought as she admired the lace brassiere.
The undergarment was the sort of thing you bought from Victoria's Secrets or Frederick's of Hollywood, not the discount stores Elaine frequented. Curious, she held it up close to her own chest, wondering what she'd look like in something like this. A glance at the small size tag on the band told her that it was a 38D, while she wore a 34B.
'The only way I'd fit into this thing would be if I used at least a box of tissues,' Elaine silently laughed, remembering how some of her less endowed classmates used to stuff their bras back in junior high.
She was just about to drop the bra onto the pile of clothes already in the washtub when an unexpected voice from behind startled her enough that she lost half of her hold on the support garment.
"I'm sure that you'd look lovely in something like that," a strong but decidedly feminine voice said, "but you're going to have to get your own."
Elaine turned in the direction of the voice, there to find a short-haired blonde standing in the doorway. Strikingly handsome rather than pretty, she stood a half foot taller than the brunette's five foot four and looked to be in her late thirties. Her hair cut in a bob, the woman wore beige colored, loose fitting slacks and a long- small dog sleeved burgundy blouse -- the latter just form-fitting enough to display a physique that matched the bra Elaine had been admiring.
"What?" Elaine replied, then realized that she still had the undergarment in her hand. "I'm sorry, I was just unloading ... I mean, I was going to put it in one of the dryers."
The woman didn't immediately respond, taking instead the time to look Elaine over. An act that made her feel slightly self-conscious, especially given how she was dressed, wearing only a pair of cut off shorts and an old faded concert shirt that had seen better days. With just about everything she owned in her own bin, she hadn't even had clean underwear to put on underneath.
"I was only joking," the woman said in a softer tone as her stern expression was replaced by a warm smile. "Not about the idea that you'd look good in it, just that I was angry that you'd moved my clothes. I know you just wanted the good machine."
The smile made Elaine feel better and she exhaled a small sign of relief.
"Pamela Benedict, 1C," the tall woman said as, moving closer, she offered her hand in greeting.
"Elaine Corbin, 4D," Elaine countered, dropping the brassiere into the tub and extending her hand as well. "I just moved in last month."
"It's nice to meet you, Elaine Corbin," Pamela said as they shook hands, "but I suppose I should clarify that 1C is actually my sister's apartment. I'm just staying there for a few days, dog sitting while she and her boyfriend frolic on the beaches of Bermuda."
"Dog sitting?" Elaine asked.
"Yes, my sister doesn't like to put him in a kennel, even for a few days, and to be honest, I really love the little rascal," Pamela explained, adding with a grin, "Sometimes more than I love my sister."
With two sisters of her own, Elaine knew what the other woman meant.
Pamela further explained that her own apartment building, in the Yorkville section of Manhattan, had a strict no pets policy, which was why she was staying here rather than taking the dog home with her.
"I'm glad you understood about the machine," Elaine said, returning to the original subject. "I don't normally make a habit of going through other people's laundry, but you have such nice outfits."
"You'd think they'd have had the repairman take a look at both machines while he was here," Pamela said, ignoring the clothing comment, "but no. I suppose the building owner is one of those people who are penny wise and pound foolish."
Elaine wasn't sure what that meant, but was satisfied that the woman wasn't angry with her for having handled her clothes. Some people, she knew, were quirky about things like that.
"According to my sister," Pamela said, still talking about the machine, "it goes through all the cycles, but in the end you either have to run everything through again or else finish the job by hand."
"Sounds a lot like my ex-husband," Elaine quipped, bringing what she thought was a smile to the corner of the other woman's mouth.
