Meeting new people. Downtown revitalized. Hikers with beautiful hands. A stranger's dirty laundry.

Part II

I met Kathy H. at the Spotless Spot laundromat in one of those formerly abandoned American downtowns that had been revitalized with quaint shops and galleries, an old-time diner and barber shop with a candy stripped pole, a brew pub, coffee shops (naturally) and a visitor center.

Kathy’s fancy REI hiking accouterments gave her a butchy appearance but on closer inspection one could tell she had been fetching, almost beautiful, before entering her independent woman phase. She was hiking across the world starting with the US of A and apparently her path included several dusty trails that made a visit to the Spotless Spot a necessary destination. A modern amenity, the laundromat. An amenity even the most rugged hiker was not willing to do without for long. So too was fresh coffee, judging by the paper cup from Jinx’s Java Kathy held in her left hand while her right was busy segregating lights from darks.

She had lovely hands. I watched them as they worked, the bones, tendons and veins, wriggling beneath her milky skin. Those two appendages could easily have had a modeling career in one of my mother’s Better Homes and Gardens magazines on the pages advertising dish soap or diamond rings or in a closeup of a loving spouse straightening her man’s tie.

It was odd Kathy did not notice my approach. For someone who spent a great deal of time peregrinating in the wilderness she did not seem all too aware of her surroundings. I might have been a wild animal. In fact, when she noticed me at last, she recoiled as if I was a viper sunning its scaley back on the trail.

“For a minute I thought the Spotless Spot was a dog grooming establishment,” I said through a friendly grin.

A baffled sounding “Huh” was Kathy’s response.

I repeated, “I thought the Spotless Spot was a place to get your dog groomed. You know? On account of the Dalmatian covered in suds on the sign.”

She regained her composure but remained guarded. She offered, “Yeah, or maybe the word Laundromat on the sign might have been a clue.” She had that type of jaded, cynical attitude so many adopted after absorbing too much 90s era television.

She continued, “The only change I have is reserved for the machines, sorry.” Kathy scooped an arm load of dirty clothes and stuffed them into the gapping mouth of an available multi-load washer.

“No problem, I can ask the wall-bank over there.” When I pointed to the far wall inlaid with a change dispenser, I saw myself in the round door of a dryer. The pitch-black metal interior gave the glass some minor reflective properties like a disk of polished onyx: I stood amid socks and underwear being tossed about in the dryer’s tumbler. It was easy to see why Kathy reacted the way she did, I had the feral appearance of someone who had spent too much time trekking about alone, not unlike a hiker.

I was trying to be clever, but Kathy was uninterested in conversation. She fed the washer the necessary fee in quarters and loaded another machine. I watched her work, admiring her ample behind pushing against the tight Lycra of her leggings, then went outside to soak up the morning sun.

There was a bench for Spotless patrons who were not content to wait out laundry cycles in the shop’s humming interior while inhaling detergent fumes. But that morning I had the bench and the fresh air all to myself. The Econo Line was conveniently parked right in front, parallel to the curb.

“All done?” I asked when Kathy exited toting a bulging laundry bag.

She did not seem to recognize me from earlier and walked by without acknowledging me in the least. It should not have hurt my feelings as much as it did. Just the same, I lept to my and imposed myself between Kathy, her laundry and the open side door of the Econo Line. A perfect gentleman eager to help, I gestured to the interior of the van like a maître d’ ushering a diner to her table.

“Let’s ride together to your next trailhead. No need to walk all the way there just to keep on walking.” Another attempt at jocularity fell flat. Kathy pushed passed me and climbed inside with not so much as a ‘Thank You.’ Indeed, she acted genuinely perturbed when I followed a few inches behind rather than entering through the driver side. The heavy door slid shut with a bang and just like that, Kathy became incredibly loquacious.

Stay Tuned for Part III