By Nick Reiher

I usually try to stay away from Laundromats. They are like CTA el cars without wheels.

They are vaguely clean, but their interiors suggest there might have been a recent time when they weren’t. Laundromats do smell better, with the fragrance of laundry soap and dryer sheets warmed by the venting dryers.

The people doing their laundry are of the same mix as those on the elevated trains: many going about their business quietly; others not so quietly and still others who look as though they wandered in from another dimension.

I needed a Laundromat recently; our queen-sized comforter was showing the effects of allowing our new puppy, Pixie, to board with us at night. There also may have been some accumulating stains from snacks enjoyed while I achieved my evening crossword puzzle.

The aforementioned comforter – missing only a few sturdy poles to make a family-sized tent – would not fit in our washer or dryer. So, to find a Laundromat.

The last time I chose a place for comforter cleansing had me more selective this time. At that point, I was looking for somewhere on the way to Target, where Tammy and I have our weekly Saturday morning date. I found one, and, from the outside, it looked reasonable.

On the inside, there were the usual out-of-order machines, with working ones displaying directions confusing to someone who needs comforter duty only every few months.

There is a sketchy-looking pop machine and chairs even McDonald’s would think to hard to sit in for more than a cycle. The attendant was matter-of-fact and guided me through the directions.

Being a male over 65, I asked the attendant where the washroom would be. She pointed to a door which I thought would lead to a modest commode, a well-used sink and pink hand soap from a dispenser I would prefer not to touch.

Would that I had been treated to such luxury. Instead, after walking through the door, I needed to take a hard right into what looked to be a dark, narrow attic with a shaky floor and low ceiling.

Smack in the midst of this musty dungeon was a commode that sat on a shaky part of the attic-like floor. It reminded me of relieving myself standing on one leg in the john of a charter boat.

The job finished, I returned to feeding quarters into the dryer until my comforter was reasonably dry … and got the hell out of there.

This recent time, I found a Laundromat that I had passed probably a hundred times, giving it no thought since it was next to a great hot dog emporium. Which, unfortunately was not open on Sundays for a dry-cycle nosh.

This Laundromat had a nice attendant who was helpful in selecting a proper washer, and handed out a bottle of cold water when I forked over a buck. There were two televisions, both set to the same football game, which was nice.

Again, a dearth of chairs, but, hey, you’re not going to get a recliner or two in among those large washers and dryers.

The washroom was clean and useful. I wondered about the linen hand towel on the sink, until I realized it probably got laundered pretty regularly in that place.

Assuming there would be a lack of entertainment, I brought along a book I bought in Iowa City more than a year ago. As you may remember, I have been slow to catch up on my recreational reading, given the strain on my brain from all kinds of stories coming at me during the workday.

This one is about Admiral Chester Nimitz and his leadership during World War II. I consider him the best of leaders during that war, so I was anxious to buy it. And now, my eyes rested during a holiday break from work, I was anxious to read it.

As it sat on one of the tables used for folding, one guy who looked as though he should have been at a football game noted that it was a real book.

“You don’t see a lot of them these days,” he said. “I use audio books or read on my phone.”

I was really starting to get into the book, with the author describing Nimitz’s character in ways I hadn’t seen before. The subtle shaggy dog stories which he would tell at great length to entertain or ease the tension at times.

How he would rarely smile, not because he was stern or in a bad mood; he wanted to hide the fact that his poor dental hygiene left him with no back molars and gold implants in the front.

“He’s from Fredericksburg, Texas,” one of the Laundromat customers said looking at the book. I had picked up a dime that he dropped earlier as he fussed with the soap dispenser and handed it to him.

“I lived in Fredericksburg, not too far from him.”

“He was the best,” I said, getting a nod in return.

This would could have been a passing discussion in a book store, sitting in a padded chair, conversing with a scholarly type also interested in history.

But this time, it was in a busy Laundromat, and the brief encounter was between a guy waiting for his comforter to be suitably dry and a man who, when I first saw him, looked as though he would be asking me for spare change:

Threadbare pants held up with suspenders over a tattered shirt. Bushy, unkempt gray beard. Stocking cap. World-weary expression.

“Pretty neat place,” I thought to myself.

Nick Reiher is editor of Farmers Weekly Review.