I am sitting on a blue bench in a laundromat at Las Vegas. Two double loads tumble as I wait. The phone is at 16%, and Drake plays on spotify while I listen out of a pair of wireless bluetooth headphones. It’s a busy day at the Wild Wash laundromat.
Families huddle around the dryers. Kids roam the laundromat full of wonder–the days when the laundromat was fun. Now we are old and it feels like a chore. Being an adult can be such a bore.
I walked next door to a Warehouse Shoe Sale store too look at the shoes. That’s all I can do: I am broke. A pair of Vans calls out to me, “try me on.”
Outside the store a tent with three mean looking dudes is set. They are promoting a radio station, Hot 97.5. One of them is wilding out, attempting to attract attention. He spreads open his arms, rocks his hips side to side to the rhythm of the music, as if riding a wave on a surfboard. He is good, but no one approaches. I walk back towards the laundromat.
The day is nice. The clouds are sparse. The mountains stand tall in the distance. I like mountains, unmovable objects.
Thoughts drift and I begin to think about Owens street. It reminds me of Los Angeles’ skid row. Homeless men and women set up camp on the sidewalks near the cementary. The dead and the close to death coexist on Owens street.
Las Vegas looks prettier at night.