Stuart Kaminsky - Midnight Pass

There were other customers, running washers and dryers, folding clothes and putting them in baskets, talking to each other, reading old magazines, telling their kids to “stay away from there,” or simply watching the circular windows beyond which shirts, underwear, pants, and socks spun in a kaleidoscope of ever-changing patterns. I was one of the dryer watchers.

I ate and thought.

A thin, tired-looking woman in a sacklike navy blue dress with little yellow flowers was at the machines next to mine. She had a little girl with her, about five, who looked like a miniature version of her mother. The little girl was clutching something that looked like a one-eyed green monster.

The mother took her load of laundry out of a once-white laundry bag with a few small tears in it, threw the laundry in the washing machine, and added the bag. She poured some All into the machine and then fished into her pocket. She came up with a handful of quarters and counted them carefully.

The little girl was looking at my sandwich now.

The mother saw her looking at my sandwich and told the kid she shouldn’t stare at people.

My sandwich had been cut in half. I had half a sandwich left.

“Does she like corned beef and chopped liver?” I asked the mother, who looked at me while she fed quarters into the machine.

“She’s never had ‘em,” the woman said. “I don’t think I have either.”

“Can I give her half a sandwich? I can’t finish mine.”

The woman looked at her daughter and then at me, trying to decide if I was trying to pick her up, was a pervert, or might even be among those few who wanted nothing more than to be nice to a hungry kid.

I guess I looked harmless.

“I suppose,” the woman said, pushing the coins in and starting the machine.

I handed the half sandwich and a napkin to the little girl, who shifted the one-eyed monster under her arm. The monster’s large single eye lit up.

“What do you say, baby?” the woman asked.

“Thank you, mister,” the girl said.

I didn’t want conversation, but the haggard woman seemed to feel that she now owed me at least a few words.

“I see you in here before?” she asked, dropping onto an uncomfortable plastic chair.

“Maybe,” I said.

She closed her eyes.

“Want to hear some jokes?” I asked.

“You a comedian?” she asked with suspicion. “Like over at McCurdy’s, the comedy place?”

“I’m working on an act,” I said.

The first joke went flat but she smiled politely. She gave a bigger smile with the second and a real laugh, albeit a small one, with the third. She was shaking her head and smiling when I told the fourth joke, and I decided to stop while I was ahead.

“You have a funny way of telling a joke,” she said. “Like it’s not a joke.”

I wasn’t sure whether or not it was a compliment so I said nothing. The little girl was working slowly on the sandwich and my clothes were still washing.

“My name’s Dreamer,” she said, holding out her right hand. “Francie Dreamer.”

“Any relation to Bubbles?” I asked.

“You know Bubbles?” she asked. “She’s my mom.”

“My name’s Fonesca. Your mother punched me in the face about five months ago when I tried to serve some papers on her. I’m a process server.”

“The divorce?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, as my washing machine stopped spinning. “How is she?”

“Still in the mobile home,” said Francie. “She’s better off. You did her a favor.”

I wasn’t sure how, but I nodded.

“Small town,” she said, as I tugged my clothes out of the washer and chucked them in the dryer.

“Sometimes,” I said.

I had moved my clothes from the washer to the dryer and was just closing the door when the circular window exploded, spraying me with glass. I had a vision of Shaquille O’Neal hanging on the rim and shattering the backboard.

I turned to Francie, who was looking at me with wide open eyes. Her little girl stood startled, mouth partly open, cheek stuffed with sandwich.

“On the floor,” I shouted, as I grabbed Francie and the girl and pushed them down as the second shot came and screeched over the top of the Formica table above me.

People were screaming now, screaming, running, diving. I could have used Ames. I lay there on top of Francie and her little girl. No more shots. Lots of crying and screaming.

I got up slowly and found myself facing an Asian woman with her hands to her cheeks.

“Did you see the shooter?” I asked.

Her mouth was wide open and she nodded yes.

“Where?” I asked.

She pointed toward the back door of Laundromat.

Something filled me, something I hadn’t felt in a long time, so long that I wasn’t sure I recognized it at first. I moved toward the rear of the Laundromat toward the partially open rear door. I was angry. I was shaking. It hadn’t been like this when I was shot at Midnight Pass, but this time the shooter had come close to hitting the woman called Francie and maybe even the little girl.

There was no one in the alleyway behind the Laundromat. There was a parking lot about half full of cars. At the rear of the parking lot was The Melting Pot, a fondue restaurant. There were no people around. I ran a few feet toward my right, where there was a driveway to Bahia Vista, and then I realized that I was chasing someone with a gun who wanted to kill me and that I had no gun of my own.

I went back into the Laundromat.

“I called the police,” a lumpy man with thick white hair called out.

“What did he look like?” I asked the Asian woman.

She shook her head, shocked.

“A man, right?”

She shook her head yes.

“You’d recognize him again if you saw him?”

“No,” she said. “I just saw the long metal part and a head behind it with some kind of hat. Then I-”

“He was white?”

She shook her head yes.

Francie was sitting on the floor with the little girl on her lap. The kid was still clutching her monster and eating her sandwich.

“You all right?” I asked.

“Yes,” Francie said. “How many people did he…?”

“No one,” I said. “He was only after me.”

“Why does he want to kill you?” she asked.

“It’s a long story,” I said, looking at the little girl and asking, “What’s your name?”

“Alaska,” she said. “Alaska Dreamer.”

The girl took another bite of sandwich.

“Pretty name,” I said.

“My mom’s name. Dreamer. My grandmom’s too. Not my dad’s. He’s in Carserated.”

Francie put an arm around her daughter, who smiled up at her, cheeks full of corned beef and chopped liver.

A police siren outside, coming fast. I looked at my laundry and decided to just forget it. My maternal grandmother would have said it was cursed. It had been with me both times I’d been shot at today. It was covered in shards of glass and the promise of a bad memory.

Some people had fled the Laundromat. One solitary man had gone back to smoking his cigar and waiting for his load to dry.

Then there were two uniformed policemen with rifles in their hands at front of the Laundromat and another two at the back.

“Hands, showing, up,” called one of the cops at the front door.

We showed our hands.

“Doesn’t look like a hostage situation,” the cop who had shouted said to his partner. “Anyone hurt?”

There was a mixed chorus of no’s.

The cops came in slowly, carefully looking for places a raging maniac might hide.

Alaska was almost finished with the sandwich now, but she didn’t stop eating. Her eyes moved between the two pairs of armed cops.

“Don’t be afraid,” Francie said softly to the girl.