a mesmerizing pick-up

i'll admit it: in the same way i am completely and utterly mesmerized by the fire, i am as equally enthralled by the dryer. When i say 'fire', i am referring to a controlled and safe, surrounded-by-a-wet-circle-of-stones-type of fire. The kind of fire girl guides and boy scouts sing and roast marshmallows around. And when i say 'dryer' i mean the washing machine's better half. The kind of dryer you find at the local laundromat; the kind of dryer with the all encompassing peeping window.

There is something vigorously hynotizing about fabric gyrating in a rhymic but haphazardly-shaped circle. Each turn of the dryer envelops its viewer with a unique wave of cascading colour (the 'colours' cycle is much more spectator than the 'whites' cycle. If you are one of those laisser faire individuals who refuse to separate laundry, i must politely inform you: you're missing out).

But where was i? Ah yes, the dryer; and the pick-up.

It began as a ho-hum nothing-out-of-the-ordinary-type of evening at the laundromat: i dumped my change, (powder) detergent and coloured clothes into the washing machine's respective compartments; i browsed through a tattered and week-old (sticky) 'NOW' magazine; i read all the rental and "have you seen my [insert dog name here]?" postings; i even feigned interest as the Leafs' power-play fizzled to another uneventful end.

Ding! Finally; the washing machine signaled its cessation.

I eagerly popped my also-sticky quarters into the dryer (ever notice how normally non-adhesive items acquire a sticky residue at the laundromat? i'm hoping it's the liquid detergent), bade my wet clothes an impressive 'run' and secured an unobstructed view of my chosen dryer's window in a no-doubt-purchased-at-the-
dollar-store (also-sticky) plastic chair.

It didn't take long for the dryer to achieve a hefty mesmerizing speed. Subsequently, I was not let down: dress-shirts and T-shirts tag-teamed panties;jeans tactfully swallowed socks; over-priced long-sleeve sweaters danced with other equally over-priced long-sleeved sweaters; and in fine form, the duvet cover trampled all. And throughout, i sat mesmerized by the orchestrated pinwheel of colour.

Like all dazzling conductors, the dryer followed its colouful performance with a climatic finale. And then-- there was silence.

The buzzer sounded and my spell was broken.

I lifted dazed and red-rimmed eyes from my heap of warm and static-full clothes straight into the gallant eyes of a stranger. He was a comfortable distance away (no need for alarm) but i continued feeling his blistering presence as i set down my clothes and began dutifully folding. I folded and i folded (like an unfortunate game of poker), hoping my competitor would cash out and leave. I cautiously looked up. Nope; he most certainly had not left. His static eyes and now fervent smile's innuendos gripped my shoulders and stroked my slightly-greasy hair. I consciously shuttered.

Now don't get me wrong, by no standard was this stranger creepy. Or rude. Or threatening. He was simply-- there; staring and smiling away.

Just as i contemplated picking my nose while simultaneously drooling and barking (in a vain effort to avert his gaze), he picked up his laundry bag (disguised as a glad garbage bag), walked towards me and then around me, leaned close and whispered,
"if you let me get your panties dirty, i'll get them clean again."

I had to smile at his metaphoric effort. We WERE in a laundromat after all - an atmosphere obstinately known for getting dirty things clean.

Did his epidemic pick-up line work? Well, if you had been there that night, you would know the (sticky) answer.