Dirty Laundry

Shannon watches her reflection in the full-length mirror of the bleak changing room before her shift starts. The fluorescent lights shudder and make her look pale. She is wearing her blue work smock and her dark-brown, almost black, hair is tied up and covered by a hair net. Each day blurs into the next, much the same, day after day, again and again.

Every Tuesday to Saturday, Shannon shows up 15 minutes early for her 6:00 am shift. She spends 15 minutes in the change room where her fresh uniform is waiting for her every day. She has been working at the commercial laundry facility for 3 years. After her shift, she rushes home to grab her book bag and attends community college classes. She is enrolled in business, but her passion is in the arts. Drawing, writing, poetry. These were luxuries though, not realistic job prospects, so she continues to attend her business courses and dreams of a day where she can quit her laundry job and enjoy some spontaneity in her life.

Shannon enters the stairwell and climbs up the industrial, steel stairs up to the service line. Working near the beginning of the service line wouldn’t have been Shannon’s first choice, she probably would have chosen to fold. She never minded folding, it was kind of peaceful to her. Instead, she is a sorter. The trucks arrive at 5:00 am and deliver the first load of dirty laundry to the receiving docks. Shannon is at her station, ready to sort the laundry by material and colour so that it is ready for the washers.

The commercial laundry facility’s clients are mainly the luxury hotel chains that are scattered around the downtown core of the city. Hotels that Shannon could only dream of staying at. They wash their towels and linens, but guests also send their laundry, which is why it is so important to properly label and keep piles separate.

Immediately once settled in at her station, Shannon’s eyes glaze over, and she begins to methodologically sort soiled sheets, towels, and clothing into the bins set out, one at a time in front of her. They send through the towels and sheets first, and then the guests clothing starts to roll in.

The towels and sheets are easy. All of the towels wash the same and all of the sheets wash the same. Where Shannon’s brain has to snap back into focus a bit is once the guest’s clothing comes through. Shannon likes to imagine who the clothing might belong to, what they might do, and what they might look like.

The next bin is pushed through by the receiving crew and rolls over to Shannon’s station. It is her first guest laundry of the day. T-shirts, pants, underwear, socks… and something hard. She feels around the pile and shakes it loose from the sweater that’s wrapped around the item. It comes free and she is holding a little black notebook in her hands. Shannon peers around her to check if anyone is watching her. People are close by, but everybody has that same glazed look on their faces and is paying her no mind.

Shannon’s curiosity gets the best of her and instead of turning in the item that she assumes must have accidentally ended up in this pile, she finds herself flipping to the first page. It says, “Write in me please, then return me where you found me.” Shannon doesn’t have anything to write with, but she finds herself unable to just turn in the item to management as she should. Instead, she takes note of the sweater in the pile, it should be easy to remember because it has a unique design on it, and slips the notebook into her smock’s large pocket. At the end of her shift, Shannon slips the little black notebook into the returning laundry bag with the unique sweater, making sure that it is hidden amongst the folds.

The rest of her week goes by much as the last did. It doesn’t take long before Tuesday comes back around, and Shannon finds herself back at her sorting station. She is going through the motions as usual when she feels something hard. Quickly Shannon unravels the same little black notebook from the sweater and stuffs it into her smock. At break, she hurries to the staff washroom and opens the notebook. There is a new entry: “Have you seen this? Please talk to me.”

Shannon feels a shiver up her spine. Last week’s entry was instructional, but this week she interprets the tone as more desperate. She had snuck a pen into her smock on the way to the washroom and sets the point onto the page to write something. Shannon scrawls in messy writing: “I am here. Who are you?”. The little black notebook is slipped back into her pocket and at the end of her shift, she puts it back into the folds of the sweater, her heart beating fast to see if anyone has spotted her before she slips into the locker room and sets to go home.

This time the week passes by slowly. Shannon is eager to find out if her mysterious new pen pal would respond. Sitting at her station, her eyes are sharply focused on spotting that unique sweater. Two hours pass before she finally spots it. She squirrels it away in her smock hurriedly.

Later in the bathroom stall, she opens the notebook. All it says is “It is almost too late for me. Northside Station, locker 10, 38-05-12, follow the instructions and you might just save my life.” Northside Station, the bus station two stops before her stop on the way home. She couldn’t go, could she? But if she did, what might she find there? Would she be putting herself in danger? It sounded sketchy. Yet exciting. But no, she couldn’t and wouldn’t do it. Without writing anything in the little black notebook, Shannon put it back into its proper laundry bag at the end of the day.

On the way home, she couldn’t help but pay extra attention to each stop called until finally "Northbridge Station". Suddenly her hand is reaching up and pressing the button to alert the driving that she is getting off. What in the world do I think that I am doing, she chastises herself, but it doesn’t stop her from making her way towards the bus station lockers.

Locker 10 looks like every other locker. Old, grey and battered, with a simple lock on it. The combination 38-05-12 is still etched into her memory, maybe because she secretly knew that she would come all along. Slowly and carefully, Shannon turns the lock clockwise, counter-clockwise, counter-clockwise and click, the shackle comes undone.

Shannon turns to look over both of her shoulders. It doesn’t look like anyone was waiting for her to open the locker. She opens the locker with bated breath to find a USB stick. On it, in black marker, she reads “Give to police.”

“Hey, little lady, what do you have there?” a tall, heavyset man smiles at her disingenuously.

“Nothing sir, just picking up my, ugh, school project,” replies Shannon.

He reaches for her and Shannon runs. She runs faster than she ever had. He probably could have easily caught her but luckily a few busses arrived just in time and she was able to duck in and out of the crowds of people emerging from them. Over her shoulder, she can see that he is still trying to follow.

Across the street, she spots a police cruiser and makes a beeline for it. The police officer rolled down her window as she sees Shannon bounding over. “Woah are you in danger?” she asked, pulling down her sunglasses.

“I think so! A man is following me and I have this,” Shannon held out the USB stick.

“A man is following you? Well, I don’t see him anymore but hop into my cruiser. I can give you a lift home.”

Shannon complies, a sense of relief washing over her, but she still feels antsy having the USB in her possession. Along the way, she explains the strange little black notebook and the locker to the police officer who she now knew as Sergeant Miller. Sergeant Miller listens intently, interjecting with questions here and there. As they pull up Shannon’s house, the police officer gives her a card with her contact information on it and puts the USB stick in a clear, plastic bag.

As strange as a day it was, Shannon feels reassured that the USB has been safely delivered and is even able to cook dinner and get some homework done that evening. The next day, Shannon is back at her station sorting the washing when the intercom goes off.

“Shannon, please come to the office.”

Shannon had never once been called to the office in the past 3 years. Had they found out about the little black notebook? When she enters the office, she sees two police officers sitting in the chairs waiting for her. Shannon’s supervisor excuses herself and leaves her alone with the police officers.

“Please, take a seat, Shannon. No need to worry,” said Sergeant Miller and signals at the other police officer to speak. Shannon takes a seat at her supervisor’s chair, feeling awkward in the chair that normally symbolized authority.

“I am Detective Constable Smith, with the Regional Police Service. This will come as a surprise to you, Shannon, but you just helped us bring down a cartel that had been running in the city for many years.” He looks at her as if expecting her to say something.

“When I brought back the USB stick to the station, we found that it contained the identities of the ring leaders of this cartel, Shannon. It had been gathered by a young man who got in with the wrong crowd and begun to take note of their suspicious activity. Not only that, but it brought us right to the location they were working out of,” says Sergeant Miller.

“They suspected that this young man had been gathering intel on them and they had abducted him, keeping him in that hotel room until they could figure out what to do with him. It’s a wonder that he wasn’t killed,” Detective Constable Smith explains. “Shannon, not only did you save this young man’s life with your bravery, but his family would like to thank you. They said it’s not much for the value of their son’s life, but they would like to give you a reward of $20,000."

“I never did this for a reward,” stammers Shannon.

“We know," Sergeant Miller responds sympathetically.

“Can I meet him?” asks Shannon.

“Maybe one day you can, but no, not anytime soon. He and his family need to be protected while this case goes through the legal system. We caught the man chasing you, so you don’t have anything to worry about,” the detective assures her.

“Take the reward Shannon, do something good for yourself with it.” Sergeant Smith smiles at her, handing over an envelope.

Before Shannon can say anything more, the police officers are excusing themselves and Shannon is alone.

Suddenly, she knows what she will do. Shannon stands up and walks out of the bleak warehouse and into the light of the day. She will never return to that job at the laundry facility. From now own, the only dirty laundry she will deal with will be her own.

At home, Shannon has her own little black notebook, but hers is filled with drawings and poetry. She will publish it. Or rather, she does publish it and many more after that with great success. All she needed was the money to get her going so that she could be what she was always meant to be, an artist.