The Procane Chronicle

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It was near Twenty-first Street over on Ninth Avenue, one of those decaying Chelsea blocks that look as though they’ve been dipped in wet soot, and except for a couple of dreary bars that kept stubborn closing hours, the laundromat was the only place open.

When it had been a pet shop a few years back the laundromat’s smeared plate-glass window might have served some useful purpose — such as giving the puppies a view of the street. Now it just splashed dirty yellow light all over the sidewalk’s week-long collection of garbage and trash.

At five minutes until three I drove past the laundromat in the gray Ford Galaxie that I’d rented from the Avis outlet. I drove past at six miles per hour, which was slow enough to let me count twelve flat-top washers, six tall dryers, and no customers.

Although it was cold and nearly three o’clock of a Sunday morning the small blue neon sign in the laundromat’s window seemed undiscouraged as it tried to beckon some business by flashing its one-word message: Neverclose.

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