RACHEL'S COLUMNS
These articles appeared in Rachel's column every Friday in the A3 section of The Age
Steamy moments give rise to germ of an idea
20th August 2004
In the beginning, we were creatures of minimal complexity. Even more outstanding than this, is that through our planet's 3.5 billion-year history – did you get that number, 3 .5 billion – not much has changed. Most creatures are what they've always been – are you ready for this – bacteria. That's what we've always been and according to scientists-bacteria rule!
These facts swirled around my 3.5 billion-year unchanged brain as I watched my sheets spinning in the front-end loader at the Laundromat. I should explain that I don't own a washing machine. My relationships with white goods have never been cheerful to say the least, but the washing machine I grew up with at home was so feral that I've chosen never to own one of my own. My mother, believing this monster was indestructible, would overload the drum so badly that its groans would get steadily louder with every shift into a new cycle.
Certain that the thing was demonically possessed, I'd hide in the corner of the kitchen (we didn't have a laundry) anticipating a violent explosion. Inevitably at the final spin the machine would go out of balance and rumble and shake until it stopped finally only by crashing into a wall. One time, on one of those hot summer evenings where even the blowflys drift aimlessly gaping at the floor, my mother had the back door open and the Beelzebub Automatic agitated itself out the back door, onto the verandah and crashed down three brick steps onto concrete.
The television was blaring so loudly we didn't hear a thing until the neighbors rang to tell us that our dog wouldn't stop barking. Expecting to find an intruder, my father ran out onto the verandah swinging the thickest salami he could find (we lived at the back of our deli). Short of murder there were no lengths my father was unprepared to go to protect his family – even destroying an entire Hungarian salami. Miraculously the washing machine survived unscathed, my father however was concussed when the dog made a grab for the salami.
I know that feeling persecuted by washing machines is an irrational obsession, but I've managed this anxiety over the years by using Laundromats. Not only is this a way of doing my washing without fear of explosions or concussion, but if as the scientists believe we are all bacteria, then the Laundromat must be a sort of branch of the United Nations – a meeting place that crosses all boundaries, geographical and coin-operated. Where, without the endless use of acronyms (UNSCOM, UNITAR, UNIFEM, and UNESCO) the myriad of teensy invisible bacteria gather for conferences, rehabilitation and training.
In the sudsy realm of wash and pre-wash, I am at once connected with humanity at all levels from the brainiest to the less-than-brainless. In a world where cool people talk mysteriously about their latest project or partner (often the same thing) to make themselves appear more interesting, it's nourishing to spend time in a place where everyone is willing to display their most intimate spills and stains without fear of judgement.
Imagine if corporate heavyweights held their meetings in a Laundromat between the wash and rinse cycles and finalised multi-million dollar contracts as together they folded their sheets into one neat rectangular parcel. In the world of mergers, money laundering and insider trading, it can be very useful to have people around you who know their cycles and can add a little Napisan into your load – just ask Martha Stewart.
Large corporations pay humungous fees for experts to talk about "synergies and growth" as they seek "to unlock value" for shareholders. It would be cheaper and very novel to have general meetings in the steamy miasma of colours and whites where one feels able to shoot from the hip. "Is this your sock?" I ask of the stranger standing next to me, holding up a tiny wrinkled black something I've just stepped on. Without any introduction or pretense, just perfect Laurel and Hardy timing he laughs convulsively and says, "It's my G-string-thanks!" OK, so now that I've shared my phobia about washing machines, any suggestions you can offer as to what I should do about my fear of touching men's underwear would be very handy.
