Wash, Rinse, Spin, Sleep

--Scott Santoro


My parent's old Maytag used to put me to sleep. Its spinning action would actually shake the third floor of the three family house we lived in. At night, as I lay in bed, the floor beams would sway in what I assume were small, circular patterns. The effect seemed huge and scary to an eight-year-old, but at the same time, comforting. The bedroom door was closed, and so were my eyes, but in my head I could see the whole process taking place.

First, my mother would gather all the miniature pants and shirts from the bathroom hamper, and in one heap, carry them into the kitchen where this sleep machine lived. As she pushed the clothes in, faint puffing sounds of air echoed from inside the washer's circular tub. My anticipation grew as the detergent and water softener were measured out. I could smell the mix of fragrances fused with the bite of chlorine. The lid would finally be closed with a hollow, metallic thud. The dials were now ready to be set: A turn to hot-cold, another to ex. large load, a click to regular fabrics, and a pull to start.

The automatic serenade commenced with a gurgle of water. This lasted for at least five minutes as the clothes became drenched, then covered by a lather of the mixture inside. Just the thought of bubbly-white, soapy foam would help wash away the day for me. I'd forget about all the difficulties of growing up. No more worries about homework or tests. No fears of teachers or older, bigger schoolmates. Just the machine, my bed, and me.

A soft repetition whispered through the apartment as the washer blades swished and sloshed, back and forth, over and over. The turning pushed and pulled at the fibers, but also massaged my tight muscles. As the grime on the fabric was loosened, so were the joints in my mind. This process lasted for at least eight whole minutes. Enough time to get settled in, flat under the covers.

Next came the draining and rinsing. There was a sense of urgency in the way the dirty water was expelled. A black hose ran from the back side of the machine into the unused half of our white, enameled, four-legged kitchen sink. The hose literally coughed out the fluids into it. But I didn't want to think about that side of our sink, the part accepting all the draining filth. It was the dark side, capped by a metal lid as if to say, "not meant for human eyes." To make it even more inaccessible, a drying rack for dishes sat on top. But I did once catch a glimpse while it was getting its semi-annual scrubbing. It was grungy and scummy like a nightmare and better left alone. I preferred concentrating on the clothes that were being purified.

As the cycles progressed, so did I, getting closer and closer to between being more asleep then awake. At a certain point there was no going back. What I really longed for however, the pièce de résistance of the process, was the final spin cycle.

It began with a slight pause. The mechanism needed time to shift gears which gave me time to shift pillow positions. The contents of the spinning tub would arrange themselves into balanced harmony as the gyration built up to a crescendo. As the third floor shook for the last time, my body would completely relax. I would never hear the final spin-down and shut-off because I'd be asleep before it happened.