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 smell of bleach, 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 each time the kitchen timer rang, especially in the hot summer. Still, whenever it dinged, she packed dirty clothes in one of Dad’s old 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, and Mom was picky about it. Bath towels had to be folded in thirds, not once, but twice. Socks rolled into a ball. Because Dad was so tall, I had to stand on the edge of the bed to fold his work 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 because I had to lay them flat, smooth them out, and fold them into thirds, exactly as Mom showed me.
Sometimes, I crawled into the middle of the laundry pile, where it was warm and smelled like Tide. I closed my eyes and listened to Dad’s classical music from the record player in the living room. But in the winter, our laundry routine changed.
During the cold winter months, Mom went to the Wash N’ Dry near Montgomery Ward in Bakersfield, and I didn’t have to fold a thing. She liked the rows of reliable washers and dryers, the long folding counters, and the rolling laundry baskets. In less than two hours, she could wash, dry, fold, pack the laundry, 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 only got an hour,” Brother said.
It was foggy and cold outside. Sparkling tinsel candy canes hung from the light posts. We passed the Christmas tree lot and watched workers flock a tree pink. I always wanted a snow-covered tree, but Mom said they were too messy. A cheerful Santa Claus with a silver bell opened the door and welcomed us into a holiday-decorated Montgomery Ward department store. Inside, it smelled like candy canes.
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 had to guess the time or ask someone.
All I could think about was looking at all the magnificent dolls and wishing for a Christmas miracle.
The Crissy doll was my favorite, 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. Shelves overflowed with other dolls: Baby Tender Love, Thumbelina, Dancerina, and Chatty Cathy. I wanted them all, but deep down I knew my wishes didn’t matter.
"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. When I lay her down, her eyes closed, and she cried, "Mama. Mama." When I picked her up, she stopped. Mom said it was good practice for my future. Becky wore a delicate white christening gown under a soft pink coat. Her matching bonnet fastened under her chin with a rosebud. I adored her, but I was growing up, and my taste in dolls was changing.
I discovered Barbies. I asked for one for my ninth birthday, but Mom quickly replied, "Any doll with a bosom bigger than mine is not welcome in this house!" She thought Barbies made girls grow up too fast.
All my doll wishes turned into frustration, and finally, I 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, stiff legs, and free her from the twisty ties and rubber bands that held her to the cardboard. My fingers felt useless, like sausages.
Suddenly, I heard voices. Someone was coming. I quickly hid the Barbie behind other boxes on the shelf and pretended to browse nearby, trying to look normal. After a woman and her child passed and turned the corner, I got my Barbie back and kept working 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 sang "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” over the speakers. I had convinced myself this was all Mom’s fault. All her doll hang-ups and rules were too much for a girl, so I took what I couldn’t have. I knew that at any minute, a salesperson might yell, "Call security! That girl just shoplifted a Barbie!”
I stuffed the Barbie into the waistband of my pants, smoothing my sweater over the bulge. My heart raced, and my ears burned. Even my glasses fogged. I knew stealing was wrong, but I told myself Malibu Barbie was worth the risk. I tried to act normal, hoping no one would notice my guilt.
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 outside 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 waiting to take me to jail.
As I made my getaway to the Wash N’ Dry, I waddled like a penguin with my thighs pressed together. I could tell my Barbie was slipping down my pant leg. My biggest fear was her sliding down and tumbling onto the asphalt. I didn’t know how I’d lie about that one if Brother had caught me. I had to stop and adjust.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.
“Nothing, just a sticker in my sock,” I said, trying to sound casual. Now, Barbie was hugging my shin. “You go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
“Whatever.” He rolled his eyes and left me behind.
Brother didn’t want to go to the Wash N’ Dry in the first place, but Mom made him. She said spent too much time at the Hobby Shop on Robert’s Lane racing slot cars.
Mom never discovered the Barbies, Dawn dolls, Trolls, and Kiddles I stuffed down my pants over the next year. I kept them hidden under my bed in a shoebox, along with my guilt, until I outgrew everything I’d placed inside.
