Day 006: Just Like Ace Ventura
It’s always cloudy when I drive to the laundromat. The scene is always the same. I sit in my car with the window down, elbow hanging out with the quiet desperation of being stuck in traffic with nowhere in particular to get to. Just out for my Thursday drive. Nothing to see here. A sickly humid wind brushes against my face as I spot a stray cat out of the corner of my eye. Playing on top of cars again. For as long as I can remember, they’ve owned this here lot. And the cars are their domain. They stand proudly on top or nap underneath, they know that nobody would ever have the heart to harm them. Miniature gray tigers that protect the detergent shed. I see another one sneak into the utility courtyard next door, presumably to tend to some fresh garbage that he didn’t tell anyone about.
I hear a slight crinkle from the bacon egg and cheese cooking on the passenger seat. Followed by a loud clang of metal on metal. The door has swung open on a clothing donation bin. There’s a man, disheveled yet rested, climbing out of it. How long had he been there? 10 minutes? 10 hours? How long have I been here? He struggled mightily to pull himself out of the door. If I were a more noble man, I would’ve jumped out of the car to give him a hand. Instead I just sat and stared, mystified by the story unfolding in front of me. It was prophetic and absurd. Like Ace Ventura crawling out of the rhino’s butt, born anew. The man tumbled out, born anew. Ready to face this dirty world.
Maybe that’s what we all need. This could be our reset. We could wake up one morning and crawl out of our respective clothing donation bins or rhino butts. Make the world a better place. This man could have everything figured out and we’re just living among him. He saunters away with purpose in every step. A voice calls out. “Close the damn door!” He walks back to the bin and does just that. It’s always cloudy when I drive to the laundromat.