Life's Little Injustices (Take XXVI): To Renew, Or Not Renew... (That Is The Question)

<"This Property Is Condemned"/Take I, The Reckoner>

If I've learned anything from apartment living it's this. Laundry rooms make great communal spaces, because they offer a place for people to drop some real knowledge, to coin a phrase from the hip-hop world. People let their guard down -- removing dirt from our clothes has a way of easing the stiffest of social fronts -- and tell you what's on their minds.

This weekend, I found myself working through the usual mountain of clothes, sheets, and assorted odds and ends -- a few raggedy pillow cases there, a stray towel over there -- when a young woman with bluish-tinted hair bounded into the room.

I had one more load to do, but needed to wait for her, since she had the three working washing machines going. With one drier already going, I just needed to kick-start the last load, and I'd be done for the night.

That's when the conversation really got rolling, after she gestured to the long silenced fourth washer. "How long have you lived here?"

"About 20 years," I responded. "Why do you ask?"

My questioner's eyes bugged open wide. "Really? Wow. How long has that washer..." She gestured at the plaintive "Out Of Order" sign taped to the lid. "Been like this?"

"Hmm, let me think," I ventured. "At least since last summer, I'd say."

"Couldn't be," the young woman scowled. She shook her head vigorously from side to side. "Because I moved in here last April, and it was already broken."

I presumed that my questioner had seen the plaintive exchange, hastily scribbled on that homegrown "Out Of Order" sign:

"Will this ever be fixed?"

"No."

"Fair enough. OK, then, it's probably been broken since the previous summer." A tinge of curiosity stirred in my brain. "If you didn't mind my asking, what's your experience been like here?"

"That's the thing," she responded. "I had a situation where water kept coming down from my upstairs neighbor, into my hall closet, and it got really moldy in there."

"Well, how did they address it?" I asked.

"They just painted right over it! They didn't even clean it out, really." She laughed, almost to herself. I swear I could her brain going: Uh-huh. Yeah, so what'd you'd expect?

"Anyway, I wasn't really using it that much, so I just moved everything out of there, that I already had."

"Sorry to hear that. If you didn't mind my asking..." I paused, to consider the framing of my next question. "What are you paying here, at the moment?"

"$1,255 per month," the young woman responded. "And when my lease comes up next month, I don't think I'll renew. Because the way I see it, you're not improving on anything, so why I should pay more to keep on living here?"

"I see the logic there," I agreed. "As for our household, we did look at other options, but didn't see anything worthwhile -- so we're standing pat, for now. Sometimes, it's easier to work with what you have."

"I definitely get that." The young woman began tossing the contents of her three loads into the driers.

"Usually, if you're looking for a better deal," I continued, "these things come down to timing. Something comes up, and you have the cash to do something about it. If you only have one or the other, you're stuck for a bit longer."

"Oh, for sure." The woman flashed a knowing smile, and finished packing up the driers. "But I don't think I'll be sticking around."

"Well, good luck to you, either way," I said.

"Same here. It's been nice talking with you." And with a great big flourish, she slammed the last of the three driers shut, and headed out, freeing me to start my final load, and finish my final task for the night.

Will she fare better than I did, in light of the shrunken housing market that prompted our household to put that search for the promised land (of lower rent) on hold? Time will tell, though the official word doesn't seem terribly encouraging, as the opening salvo from this Michigan Municipal League policy brief, issued in October 2024, appears to suggest:

"Michigan’s housing landscape faces a conundrum— a surplus of buildings coupled with unmet demand for housing units that people both like and can afford. As the composition of Michigan households evolves, with an average size of 2.48 people per the most recent American Community Survey (ACS) data in 2022, the mismatch between existing housing stock and actual needs becomes even more apparent.

"The release of Michigan’s Statewide Housing Plan in 2023 has further spotlighted the runaway problem facing every Michigan community: with housing prices up a whopping 84 percent since 2013, Michigan residents are facing numerous barriers to securing appropriate housing access."

There you have it, then. That old demon of supply and demand, the usual suspect driving so many of these discussions, doesn't appear to have grown anymore forgiving than it seemed back in 2008, when the housing bubble burst with such a resounding pop. Actually, the MML brief isn't all doom and gloom, as it offers some interesting potential solutions, as you see (click the link below).

Still, if there's a reason for why so many Americans feel caught in a mousetrap, it's not hard to see why. As usual, it comes down to lack of options and lack of resources, creating the familiar knock-on effect of falling further and further behind, with the bounty on the horizon fading ever farther from sight. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry, Before
Your Rent Rockets Skyward Again)

Michigan Municipal League:
Hacking Michigan's Housing Potential:
https://mml.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/10/MML-Policy-Brief-House-Hacking-10_3-Final.pdf

US Census: Nearly Half Of Renter Households
Are Cost-Burdened, Proportions Differ By Race:
https://www.census.gov/newsroom/press-releases/2024/renter-households-cost-burdened-race.html

<"This Property Is Condemned"/Take II, The Reckoner>

Life's Little Injustices (Take XXIII): The Flooring Crew Cometh (The Laundry Room Closeth)

<"This Laundry Room Closeth -- TIll Further Noticeth"

The Reckoner>

"This story has just begun,

So please tell me, if I'm wrong...

It takes one hand,

To wash the other..."

--Prince Buster,
"One Hand Washes The Other" (1962)

<i.>

Just when I thought, "I'm done writing about laundry rooms, thankfully," what happens? Almost on cue, another issue pops up The minute you tell yourself, "I won't do X, Y or Z," that's when you jinx yourself, and wind up doing X, Y or Z, all over again.

You'd think I'd have learned my lesson by now, right? No dice, apparently, because this is the third piece I'm dedicating to the subject. There's a reason why Sean Connery titled his one-off Bond comeback vehicle, Never Say Never Again (1983). Enough said about that one!

Still, the power of repetition is an awesome thing. I'm remined of a quote attributed to Lorne Michaels, the man who gave us "Saturday Night Live," whenever his cast -- or the critics -- griped that all those repeating characters and bits were making the show feel stale. His response mantra went something like this: Do something once, it's unique; twice, it's a runner; three times, it's an institution.

So goes our latest laundry room tale Last month, management at our apartment complex announced the temporary removal of our washers and dryers, so it could redo the floor. Hence, the laundry room would close, from Monday through Friday. No worries, the notice reassured us. The machines will be reinstalled by Friday.

I had various editorial projects going on, so I didn't feel overly concerned. At worst, I thought, they'll miss the Friday target, but we'll get our machines back on the Monday. No worries, right? I should have known better, of course. By Monday afternoon, The Squawker began to voice considerable angst about that ever-growing, Great Big Massive Clothing Mound -- from bed sheets to clothing, dish clothes to wash clothes, and towels to T-shirts -- rearing its ugly head from the confines of our cobalt blue laundry cart.

I duly headed upstairs, and took a look, though it seemed funny that we hadn't been officially informed yet. Hmm, I thought, don't they usually send us some type of notice?

Sure enough, the minute I padded upstairs, I saw some type of brown vinyl flooring in place -- but no machines. Needless to say, this news didn't play well, when I informed The Squawker of these developments.

"How the hell are we supposed to get our laundry done? I'm almost out of clothes already, and it's not even the weekend!" The Squawker railed, as mere impatience yielded to the throes of sheer bloody frustration. "What the hell do we do now?"

I suggest heading down to Beacon Laundry, a mere 10-minute drive away. With a nod from Squawker, I load the Great Big Massive Clothing Mound into our van, and take a notebook -- the better to jot down some reviews for my 'zine. It'll drain a couple hours of my time, plus a chunk of my wallet, my brain tells me. But it sure beats the alternative, right?

<"We're Sorry, Maaan -- We're Really, Really Sorry..."

The Reckoner>

<ii.>

Well, sort of, as it happens. Beacon is actually the result of a sale, having opened as Whistlestop Wash, back in 1959 -- as one glance at the Art Deco-style, boxlike building will instantly tell you. I'd used it from time to time, whenever I couldn't access our own laundry, but in recent years, I'd begun avoiding the place, honestly.

The fiftysomething female manager in place at the time seemed burned out and embittered by the tight-fisted management, and I found the kiddie-level metal chairs and tables -- which screamed of the Jack Webb era of TV -- too unforgiving and uncomfortable to tolerate using. As a result, I often wound up working on projects in the van, which is hardly ideal when you're trying to keep track of your laundry.

In contrast, Beacon beams with the reassurance that only a business sale can bring, from the Sesame Street-ish primary colors that dominate its repainted interior, to the glowing silver facades of its latest, greatest machines. Gone are the kiddie-level tables and chairs, though their replacements feel only slightly more comfortable.

It's also incredibly, maddeningly, all too typically, bloody expensive. Two and a half hours later, I finally return home, about $40 poorer for my efforts -- or about double what it costs to clean the Great Big Massive Clothing Mound at home. 

<"To Whom It May Concern..."/The Reckoner>

<iii.>

Week Two passes by, at first, with nary a word from management. For The Squawker and myself, it's a worrying development, since money's thinning on the ground. And neither of us wants to repeat the $40 experience that blew such a large hole in last week's budget.

Come Thursday afternoon, there's still no sign of those elusive machines. Every day, I troop upstairs, and do my dutiful due diligence, but it's not a quality that seems to make the machines return more expeditiously. Quite the opposite, in fact. Or so it seems, anyway.

"The hell with it," snaps Squawker, when I confirm -- yet again -- that our washers and dryers have yet to return. "Why don't you call them, and find out? Call them. I can't go another weekend without my clothes!"

I don't need to hear that request twice! "And we can't get by for another week, dropping 40 bucks," I agree, and begin dialing.

I don't reach our manager, who's taken the day off. However, her fill-in promises to get the answer, and proves as good as her word -- five minutes later, the phone rings again. "The machines are definitely being re-installed tomorrow," I'm told. "No ifs, ands, or buts. That's what we've heard."

The Squawker makes a skeptical face. "What makes you think it'll happen this time?"

"Well, in part, because I don't have a choice," I answer. "We have to believe, since I can't part with 40 bucks this week, anymore than I did last week. Time will tell, basically." 

And indeed, it does. Friday (Week Two) rolls around, and indeed, the machines are back in place, as if the whole debacle had never happened. 

Hang on, though. There's just one more sting in the tale, as I learn later that afternoon, when I've finally finished the Great Big Massive Clothing Mound.

I've just finished taking out the trash, rolling our 39-gallon container across the concrete. It's an eightysomething degree day, so I pause, and sit down in the second car, and let the sweat roll off me. Just then, our manager pulls by, and stops. "Did you get my message?" she asks.

"Yeah, your cohort passed it on," I nod. "Thanks. What was the problem, exactly? I mean, from looking at the walls, all they had to do was re-connect the machines..."

The manager pauses from petting her dog in the back seat. "They just kept ignoring me, so finally, I had to get Corporate involved, reach out to their corporate..."

"I see. Well, even then, it shouldn't have taken quite that long..."

"Well, see, that's the thing..." The manager frowns, and purses her lips. "The machines were here, the whole time."

Now it's my turn to screw up my face into a frown. "Say what? You're kidding me!"

"No, I'm not," the manager responds. "But see, the maintenance guys can't even touch the machines, under our contract..."

"Oh, yeah, sign of the times. I get that. Well, better than late never, I guess..."  I shrug. "Thanks for your follow-up,  though."

"Have a good weekend!" And with that, our manager shoots off, as ready to start on her weekend. Or, at least, as ready as anyone can be, after (finally) getting off at the princely hour of seven o'clock! 

So runs life in the corporate outsourced technocracy we call America today. Pass the inefficiencies onto the customer, with a side of legalese to go, if you please. Ah, well. Maybe I can get a jump the laundry before that Great Big Massive Clothing Mound rears its ugly, unwashed head once more. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (So Hurry Up,
As You Rub-A-Dub-Dub...)

Dead Milkmen: Laundromat Song:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BPB-TjZcfXk

Pretenders: Watching The Clothes Go Round:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0huPnNi6ZhQ

Prince Buster: One Hand Wash The Other:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ca9j3gLThKw

Life's Little Injustices (Take XXII): The Blow-Up (Not The Movie --The Laundry Room!)

 

<"Laundry Room Blues/Take III": The Reckoner>

You can always tell when cramped conditions get to people. Today strikes me as a timely reminder of that principle, as I hurry to get The Squawker's and my own laundry done, on the second floor of our building. I have until 6 a.m. tomorrow, because management is closing the laundry down all week, so the flooring can be redone. Which also means that Sunday, being recast as D-Day, will likely prove competitive than usual.

As usual, my hunches aren't far off when I head upstairs about eight o'clock-ish, or so. Two washers are going full steam ahead, and so are three dryers. I just about manage to load the full contents of my cart into both of them, and head back down.

Come Trip Number Two, nothing changes. The same number of dryers are tumbling away, so I stuff the entire contents of my cart into the remaining one (Dryer #2) -- beggars not being choosers, and all that sort of thing, blah-blah-blah. 

An hour later, I pop back up. This time, I notice that Dryer #3 has long since stopped, but nobody has emptied it yet. Same story for Dryer #4, as well. I turn around, and notice a squat, thirty/fortysomething young woman casting a thumb anxiously in my direction.

"Is that stuff yours?" she asks. Her voice betrays a note of anxiety (as in, Christ, I'm still dealing with this crap -- just when I wanna go to bed, so I can get up for work!)

I snap open Dryer #3. Nothing in there, really, but a huge, fluffy pillow, and a couple blankets. I unceremoniously begin emptying them out, which doesn't take long. "Look," I tell the woman, "in rock 'n' roll, things have to happen on the beat, or you won't make it. Same story here. It's been sitting like this for an hour, at least. I'd go for it."

She nods, and begins emptying Dryer #4, which is far more filled -- mainly with children's clothing -- while I hurriedly parcel half the load from Dryer #2 into its neighbor, that I've just emptied out. The magnetic stripe on my e-card does the rest.

Another hour and a half passes. Right, I tell myself. Time to head back up, and finish off the job. I plonk down a chair in front of Dryer #3, and begin peeling off its contents into my cart. I'm vaguely aware of two pieces of paper taped to the wall, behind the machines, but at first, I'm too preoccupied to read them. But when I do, I can't stop laughing, starting with Note #1:

"Please remember, that wasn't your clothing in the dryer. It's disrespectful to touch another person's belongings. Thank you! :-)"

But it's Note #2 that inspires the loudest, most prolonged ripples of laughter from Yer Humbler Narrator, as you may well agree:

"It's also disrespectful to leave your clothes all night in the dryer, and not collect them when they're done. Thank you! LOL. :-)."

So did that woman I encountered write Note #2? I've no idea, but it wouldn't surprise me. The impatience flashing across her eyes when she popped her question ("Is that stuff yours?") told me everything I needed to know. 

In any event, I suspect the writer of Note #1 didn't expect that response -- assuming it stays up, if they make it up before 6 a.m. rolls around. Suffice to say that when the chips are down, crowded conditions don't bring out the best in us. What else is left to say here, though, except: "Game, set, match?" That'll do nicely, I think. --The Reckoner

<"Laundry Room Blues/Take IV": The Reckoner>

Life's Little Injustices (Take XX): "We Moved Out, Because We Had No Choice"

 Oh, Saturday night

Mmm, everyone's having fun

I'm down at the laundromat

Trying to get my washing done

Time and time again
Watching the clothes go 'round
Another week sees its end

Watching the clothes go 'round
Watching the clothes go 'round

<The Pretenders:

"Watching The Clothes">

A couple Sundays ago, I happen to be wrapping up my weekly pile of laundry, when a couple of older women enter the room.

For much of my time here, our laundry room has served as a monument to how ancient civilizations lived -- as the twin presences of the '60s-era cigarette machine, and '80s-era pop machine, can attest.

Both took up an enormous amount of space, for the longest time, until somebody or other finally removed them. And, oh yeah, the laundry's on the second floor. Who does that nowadays?

Another reminder of the Mike Brady Era of Architecture, when nobody bothered about such things. Ah, they'll trudge up the stairs. They'll curse under their breath, but they'll put up with it. They won't have any other choice.

Anyway, I'm minding my own business, like usual. Two drying cycles have come to a halt, at last. Time to start folding and stuffing clothes into the cobalt blue cart that helps me haul them back and forth. 

Just when I look up again, I notice two women -- this one, sixtysomething, with fair white hair, that one, taller and stockier, in her forties, with braided brown hair, also wearing glasses -- bent intently over the washers.

They seem like a mother and daughter team. I watch them study the washer controls for a couple more minutes. Finally, I speak up. Must be new arrivals, I told myself. They don't know that management switched over the machines, from coins to e-cards, a couple years back.

"If you're trying to decide between medium or heavy, the only difference is the time, honestly," I say. "They just raised it a quarter not too long ago." (I now pay $2 per load, per washer.)

"Oh, thanks." Mom flashes a quizzical look. "We just moved here a couple weeks ago, so we're still figuring everything out."

"Well, in that case, welcome," I answer. "What brings you both here, if you don't mind me asking?"

Now it's the Daughter's turn to sigh. "We were both renting a house, until the owner decided to sell it..."

Mom finishes the thought. "And didn't want to rent it anymore." She frowns, as the memory seems to flash, still fresh, still raw, across her lips. "They waited until our lease was up to tell us, too."

"Lovely timing, as usual," I agree. "Nice of them, wasn't it? No worries, I get it. I've heard a few stories like that, in my time."

"Yeah, that's how it worked out," Daughter says. "We moved out, because we had no choice. We had to find another place quick, and this is where we ended up."

"A familiar story. Well, good luck, then," I say. "If you need to know how anything else really works around here..." I've been here awhile, so I've seen a few changes in my time."

"Will do," Daughter says. "Thanks for your help."

I watch them load the washer, slam the lid shut, and leave, without another word. I wheel my cart behind them, following in their footsteps, as the clock ticks on. "There goes my Saturday night, without a fight," just like the song says: it's almost midnight. As usual, I have way too much work to do. --The Reckoner

<This Image:
"Laundry Room Blues/Take II"

That Image (At Top):
"Laundry Room Blues/Take I"

The Reckoner> 

Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry,
Before Another Spin Cycle Betrays You Again...)

The Pretenders: Watching The Clothes:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0huPnNi6ZhQ