24 Hour Laundry Mat

“In the case of baby Alana; Jerome, you…are NOT the father!” Maury Povich’s voice rang out over the rhythmic whoosh of the commercial dryers. His face obscured by a thick black swipe of dead pixels on the small flat screen TV perched on a makeshift shelf and chained to the wall. A stain on the ceiling the shape of Russia loomed ominous above it.

“Quarters?”

The presence of the laundry mat attendant at her elbow startled her back to reality.

“You said you wanted 20 bucks worth?”

He gave the little plastic bucket full of quarters he was holding a jiggle to show his impatience. She smiled slightly and nodded as a thank you/apology combo. She reached for the bucket, but he didn’t give it up.

“I need the cup back. You got somethin’ to put em in?”

“Oh, um,” she began to dig around in her bag for a vessel. Her anxiety started to trickle down the back of her neck in a cool drip of sweat. The attendant clicked his tongue and let out a huff of annoyance.

“¡Mira! Just put them in a sock or something—” before he could finish admonishing her, a scuffle at the vending machine pulled his attention away. He set the cup of change on the table next to her and hustled over to the arguers.

She took a shuddering breath to calm herself down. She grabbed a tin of Altoids out of her bag and popped it open. One mint left. She put the mint on her tongue and poured the cup of quarters into the now empty tin.

“It was MY dollar!”

“It ain’t my problem that yours got stuck.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh! Fuck ME?! Real nice—”

“Hey hey HEY! I’ll give you both another dollar, and then yous can get the fuck out.” The attendant cut in on their bickering and turned on his heel to open the cash register. Before he could get one finger on the bills, the press of cold medal just below his ear turned him to stone.

“Empty the register, now.” Arguer number one hissed while arguer number two held the gun stiffly at arm’s length while searching the room. He spotted her. He let out a sharp whistle at his partner, then jerked his head in her direction

“Hey! You! Get over here, now!” Arguer number one was the only one who had a voice, apparently. She stood and stared blankly.

“Are you deaf?” She continued to stand motionless. Arguer—robber—number one slunk around the register toward her. He was next to her in three rabbit heartbeats. She saw a scar that cut through his eyebrow. He was missing three teeth, a cigarette burn on the collar of his jacket, and pupils so wide that his eyes looked black.

Robber number two found his voice,

“What the fuck, man, let’s go! We gotta go!” He held up the bag of money with one hand, the gun pointed at the attendant with the other while he edged towards the door. “I got the money, dude. Let’s get the fuck outta here!”

Robber number one didn’t take his eyes off of her.

“I didn’t get to have my sweet treat.” His breath smelled like pain. His sweat stained her nostrils with the promise of violations to come. She sucked in a quick breath to protest, but his switchblade stole it from her lungs. He pressed a gloved finger against her lips. His blade bit her neck as a warning. He pressed her to the ground.

“Better be still or your blood’s gonna spill.” He chased his words with hysterical laughter.

“We ain’t got time for that shit!” Robber number two was bouncing on the balls of his feet, pacing like a hyena waiting for his turn at the carcass. “Come on!”

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” Rapist number one yelled at his partner. His blade licked her neck in his distraction. She sucked in a breath through her teeth. His hand was still fumbling with his pants.

“The police could show up any second—”

“Nobody called the police you stupid ass!” Rapist number one slammed his fist into the table leg in his rage. Her mint tin of quarters sailed off and exploded on the ground. A huge barn owl, startled by the strange metallic crash, swooped down in a fury of feathers from a dark corner of the room towards the open door. Robber number two screamed, swung his gun around and took a shot at it. The bullet ricocheted off two of the huge metal washing machines, pierced the rapist’s back and nestled itself in his heart. He fell on top of her, and she rolled his dead weight off. Robber number two came running up to his partner’s corpse. The attendant crept slowly toward them, morbid fascination overcoming his fear of mortality.

Blood was pooling under rapist number one’s body. Blood was dripping down her neck from the kiss of the dead man’s blade. Robber number two looked at her. He whipped around and looked at the attendant. He looked at the gun in one hand and the bag of money in the other. He began to back away towards the door. A pace away from the threshold he turned and ran.

She and the attendant sat motionless while Maury Povich introduced a new guest on the screen chained to the wall above. She looked at the screen and felt the burn of the new cuts on her neck. She locked eyes with the attendant and said,

“Was that a fucking owl?”