Final Rinse
by Dave Powell
Freddy
reached into the shopping bag and retrieved a can
which he opened and savoured, as he sat on a
bench opposite the tumble dryer.
The
view through the glass door of the dryer seemed
to mesmerise. One of his socks cascaded from the
top of the drum and flirted with a tea towel, and
a pair of underpants slid into the embrace of a
shirt arm that tossed and folded in the warm air.
It was something of a metaphor, a laundrette, he
thought gazing into the dryer. Fast spin, mixed
coloureds. He, approaching the final rinse cycle
years of life.
The
launderette was quiet, but a tall distinguished
looking man, stuffing laundry through the open
lid of a washing machine, and Mavis, the
proprietor, who was heaping great piles of linen
on to a weighing machine, kept Freddy company.
Looking
through the window, the high street also seemed
quiet. A man was chaining a bicycle to a lamppost.
Another was leaning out of a car window, looking
at two yellow lines that a youthful looking
policeman was pointing at, informing the driver
that parking was not allowed.
The
tumble of washing seemed calming, but a flash of
red weaving between a pair of trouser legs
startled him. That’s odd, thought Freddy, he
didn’t recall putting anything red in there.
And there it was again, something red in his
laundry, darting up and down.
Intrigued,
he rose from the bench and opened the dryer door.
The tumble stopped and the laundry clumped in a
heap at the bottom of the drum.
Just
as he thought, a piece of red material nestled in
the washing, and reaching in, he withdrew it. It
was a red scarf. “Not one of mine,” he
mused, feeling the damp red fabric. But his
attention fastened on something else in the drum,
a piece of wood.
Awkwardly
manipulating the object, he managed to pull out a
wooden paddle.
Reaching
In the drum again, he found the front end of a
canoe, which he dragged out, the full length
landing on the launderette floor. A
further inspection revealed the aft end of HMS
Ark Royal. He could even see a sailor leaning on
a rail, smoking a fag and waving to him.
Freddy
waved back, but as he was looking at the Ark
Royal, a hand lunged out and grabbed him by the
throat. “Oh no you don’t,” called
a refined voice from inside the dryer, and a
smartly trousered left leg shot out. It was the
Duke of Edinburgh!
“Oh
no you don’t, you bastard,” the Duke
continued. “Give me my scarf back.” But
Freddy was in no mood to return the scarf, and
with a heave, dragged the Duke of Edinburgh from
the tumble dryer.
“Get
your fucking hands off me you Greek turd”,
he screamed, falling on the floor next to the
canoe. But the Duke closed his grip on Freddy’s
throat as they thrashed in a pile of washing,
strewn over the floor.
“Is
he all right,” asked Mavis, looking at the
policeman who was pressing Freddy’s throat,
feeling for a pulse.
“I
think he’s dead,” the policeman
answered, picking up the can from the bench were
Freddy’s shopping bag lay.
“Solvent,
nasty stuff.”
The
ambulance pulled away from the launderette
pavement and Mavis returned to weighing the linen.
“How
does one work the machine?” asked the tall
gent, scratching his forehead.
“You
need one pound twenty,” Mavis answered.
“Here, I’ll show you.”
“That’s
kind of you,” the man said. “And
trizers, will it do trizers?”
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