Wash N’ Dry
Photo by iStock
The washhouse sat on the east side of Happy Acres, in the middle of a grassy median. The old, whitewashed building always felt gloomy, dark, and humid, with the smells of bleach and moldy wood, and a window painted shut.
Inside, there was an old washer, a dryer, and a sink big enough to wash a German Shepherd. Mom didn’t like going to the washhouse every time the kitchen timer rang, especially in the hot summer. Still, whenever it dinged, she packed dirty clothes in one of Dad’s Marine Corps knapsacks and headed out.
By the end of the day, there was always a pile of clean clothes, taller than me, right in the middle of Mom and Dad’s king-sized bed.
After dinner, my job was to fold the laundry. Bath towels had to be folded in thirds, not once but twice. Socks rolled into a ball. Because Dad was tall, I stood on the edge of the bed to fold his pants. I hung them upside down over the side, lined up the seams and creases, then folded them in half and slid them onto a wooden hanger. Folding Dad’s enormous underwear was the worst chore. I had to lay them out flat, smooth them with my palms, and fold them in thirds so they’d fit better in his drawer.
Sometimes I burrowed into the middle of the laundry pile, where it was warm, and smiled like Tide. I closed my eyes and listened to Bach on the record player in the living room and the clinking of dishes in the kitchen. But in winter, our laundry routine was different, and I didn’t have to fold a thing.
During those cold winter months, Mom went to the Wash N’ Dry near Montgomery Ward in Bakersfield. She liked their rows of reliable washers and dryers, the long folding counters, and the rolling laundry baskets. In under two hours, she could wash, dry, fold, pack, and finish a crossword puzzle.
After putting coins in all the washing machine slots, Mom let Brother and me walk across the parking lot to Montgomery Ward to browse in their toy department.
“Hurry up, slowpoke. We’ve only got an hour,” Brother said.
It was foggy and cold outside the Wash N’ Dry. Sparkling tinsel candy canes hung from the light posts. We walked past the Christmas tree lot and watched a giant Christmas tree get frosted pink. I always wanted a snow-covered tree, but Mom said they were too messy, that fake trees saved money over time, and that they were better for the environment. A cheerful Santa Claus with a red bucket and a silver bell opened the door and welcomed us to Montgomery Ward. He smelled like candy canes but didn’t offer us one.
We rode the escalator to the toy department on the second floor and split up, agreeing to meet in an hour. I didn’t have a watch like Brother, so I always had to guess or ask someone.
All I could think about was looking at all the magnificent dolls and imagine they were mine.
The Crissy doll was my favorite that year, with her big eyes and long auburn hair. A twist of the knob on her back turned her hair from Rapunzel-long to pageboy short. All of the shelves overflowed with dolls: Baby Tender Love, Thumbelina, Dancerina, and Chatty Cathy. I wanted them all, but knew better than to put them on my wish list.
"Dolls with moving parts break and do not foster a child’s imagination," Mom always said.
Mom liked traditional baby dolls with long eyelashes that closed over their blue eyes when you lay them down to sleep. One Christmas, I got Becky. She was a soft-bodied Madame Alexander doll dressed in a delicate white christening gown under a soft pink coat. When I lay her down, her eyes closed, and she cried, "Mama. Mama,” until I picked her up. Mom said it was good practice for motherhood. I adored Becky, but as I grew up, my taste in dolls changed, too.
I discovered Barbies that summer. I asked for one for my ninth birthday, but Mom replied, "Any doll with a bosom bigger than mine is not welcome in this house!" She was certain Barbies made girls grow up too fast.
All my doll wishes and wants turned into frustration until I finally snapped. While Mom folded at the Wash N’ Dry, I stole a Barbie from Montgomery Ward.
It took me half an hour to open the bottom of the Barbie box, pull out her long legs, and free her from the twisty ties and rubber bands that held her to the cardboard. My fingers felt useless as sausages.
Suddenly, I could hear voices; someone was nearby. I hid the Barbie behind other boxes on the shelf and pretended to browse, trying to hide my guilt. After a woman and her kid passed and turned the corner, I got my Barbie back and kept working on her until I set her free. She was a beautiful, busty, long-legged blonde in a one-piece green rose swimsuit.
I slipped the Barbie inside my coat and held her close while Gene Autry’s "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” played over the speakers. I convinced myself it was all Mom’s fault. Her doll hang-ups and rules were too much for a girl like me, so I had to take what I couldn’t have. It felt like any minute, someone might point at me and yell, "Call security! That girl just shoplifted a Barbie!”
I stuffed the Barbie into the waistband of my pants and smoothed my sweater over the bulge. My heart pounded, my ears burned, and my glasses fogged up. I knew stealing was wrong, but I told myself that Malibu Barbie was worth the risk.
Brother and I left the toy department and rode the escalator down. Bing Crosby’s “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” played over the speakers. After weaving through the clothing racks in the women’s department, we reached the exit. Through the glass doors, I saw Santa Claus ringing his bell, the foggy glow of the Christmas tree lot, and the Wash N’ Dry neon sign blinking across the parking lot. To my relief, there was no police car outside waiting to take me to jail.
As I made my getaway to the Wash N’ Dry, I had to waddle like a penguin with my thighs pressed together because I could feel Barbie slipping. My biggest fear was her sliding down my pant leg and tumbling onto the asphalt. I couldn’t imagine a lie good enough to explain that to Brother. I stopped and made an adjustment.
“What’s wrong with you?” Brother asked.
“Nothing, just a sticker in my sock,” I said. Barbie was hugging my shin. “You go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
“Hurry up, dummy. Mom’s waiting for us.” He rolled his eyes and left me behind.
Mom never found out about all the Barbies, Dawn dolls, Trolls, and Kiddles I stuffed down my pants over that next year. I kept them hidden under my bed in a shoebox, along with my guilt, until I outgrew everything inside. That didn’t happen until we left Happy Acres Trailer Park for a condominium in Fremont that came with a washer and dryer.
