It’s ours, you know, this laundromat, this obscene diner with salty cake gleaming in its dusty dome— what a mix! The starched soapsuds, the chrome crook of a high chair’s arm… I’m yours, whines the radio. Alarms in the distance—car alarms, like shouts. Gargling, the Maytags belt out their anthems. Impressive: if fed enough quarters, the sound can travel for days. It’s fate, drawls the singer. Mid- to late morning, the Top Ten trade-off blasts its masters. He picks up a riff where he left it, makes good on the cryptic promise of wood panels. You can decide, you know, from the menu. Warm, at least, and cheap— “Siddown, hon, and eat!” barks the waitress. (Battered chickens, in all stages of undress, a dry fritter of coleslaw beside.) At the machines, a thin boy with Tide™ spills a bluish stain on his collar. (Waste of water, costs a dollar to fix.) The music makes the mix of folks who seem to wash their own names: Sweater Vest (prim and pallid) hums to a freshly written ballad, station and cycle set on fluff. Rinsing his flannels, Tough reads Louis L’Amour, the real pulp-Western wunderkind. It’s ideal, ideal, you know, to have music this flat here—but the waitress tunes out calm, twists the dials from boredom. “Let’s hear this awhile”: hop-skip songs for Cold War kids, plum in their Duck and Cover delirium. It changes again! She near-misses the notch: ‘It’s Kiss, hon, it’s kisses for you.” The guitar’s grind dies, gives ground to voices: We break to bring news from the capital… Slot your quarters in—the admirable bass hums on. Use dryer sheets for static. The ducts bleat loudly, erratic as brass, while buttons hone their rhythm and a wizened dryer groans its last. The white jukebox knows no equal but music. Look: the restless waitress scribbles up your bill. If all the news should make you ill, slot one quarter in each ear. Block it all out. Customers leer as Maytags whir with cleansing powers and car alarms shout “It’s ours, ours…”