Freedom Laundry
An old, obese and greasy man wheels a metal basket unsteadily through Freedom Laundry.
His left pant leg is ripped open to the waist revealing a swollen and purple calf. He has gout.
The basket is on a collision course with me and my orange plastic chair.
I've never seen anyone with gout. How do I even know what it is? Must be all those 19th century English novels I read. All the rich characters had gout. Now just poor Americans.
I stand up and move away. I fight the feeling of being physically repulsed by his presence. I'm losing the fight and it is the worst feeling in the world.
A large blue tote full of clothes rides atop a large black garbage bag full of clothes. Any second, all will topple to the tile floor.
The man maneuvers the basket to the door. There is no way he can make it out.
He makes it, losing only the lid to the tote.
John Mellencamp's “Jack and Diane” is playing on a boombox radio hung from the ceiling.
I spring into action and pick up the lid. He doesn't see me.
Now he must lift the basket off the sidewalk and down to the parking lot, a drop farther than Multnomah Falls.
I notice his destination: a tan luxury sedan from Bill Clinton's first term that's no longer luxurious.
An old, obese man sleeps behind the steering wheel. They are living out of the sedan. I'm an expert on recognizing these vehicles. We all are these days.
I am about ready to render aid when the man (insert American verb not yet invented here) the basket to the parking lot...
...and...
the tote tips over and meets asphalt.
“I've got your lid,” I say and lean it against a cracked and bald tire.
No response.
There is no way that sedan can drive a mile on that tire.
I return to my chair and watch the man hurl clothes into the back seat. He shuts the door and places the empty tote and garbage bag into the basket.
He's got another load!
I get up to check my washer. The man enters and wheels the basket toward a dryer. He caroms off a counter and stops. I stare.
He's got two more loads!
I'm standing at a table seven feet away.
He is bending over to load the tote.
He is gasping for air.
He is going to die.
“Hey, can I give you a hand?” I say.
That means I'll have to touch his clean clothes. I notice his laundry includes cloth bandages. His wardrobe is pure lumberjack from the Sometimes a Great Notion heyday.
He doesn't hear me, perhaps because “Jukebox Hero” by Foreigner is now playing much louder than “Jack and Diane.”
The man swears at his clothes but I can't make out the insults.
He lifts the tote to the basket and places it inside.
I see his face up close.
In documentaries, I've seen faces of the Russians who survived Stalingrad and they looked nothing like this face. This is a distinctly contemporary American face carved out by the ravages of American politics. The carving began with a butter knife in Ronald Reagan's first term. Now his spawn wields a chainsaw.
There were no such faces in Coos Bay four decades ago.
This man's face should be carved into Mount Rushmore of the Washington Monument or better yet, replace Lady Liberty's face, or even better, adorn a unit of new currency or new coin we use every day.
Consider this: in the 1972 presidential election Coos County cast more votes for George McGovern than Richard Nixon. What's happened to Coos County since then? What's happened to the faces and bodies and minds of so many of its citizens? Why are men and women living in Coos Bay driftwood forts?
The man smiles, a completely toothless smile, and says something impossible to comprehend, but I talk to him anyway, nod, gesticulate, and hold a conversation with him that soon ends.
I didn't understand a single word he said. This is a first for me with a fellow American.
Rick Springfield's “Jessie's Girl” starts playing.
He's ready to wheel out the second load. There is no way he can make it.
“Hey, can I help you get this outside?” I say.
Why ask? Just jump in! We need more jumping in.
He says something. The warmth of his guttural voice and smile makes me realize he has declined my offer.
He rolls the basket toward the door.
How do I write this up and provide him dignity?
Well, he was washing his clothes, keeping clean, a homeless man living out of his car in Empire.
Maybe I start there.