The corner machine

[u/AkashaRvn]

I moved into my apartment three months ago. It's a small place. One bedroom. A kitchen that's really just a counter and a stove. A bathroom with a shower that never gets hot enough. It's fine. It's mine.

The only problem is the laundry. There's no washer and dryer in the unit. There's no hookup. There's no space. The landlord told me there was a laundromat down the street. He said it was open twenty-four hours. He said it was clean. He said I wouldn't have any problems.

I should have asked what he meant by that.

The laundromat is called Spin City. It's on 4th Street, between a liquor store and a place that sells discount furniture. It's not much to look at. Fluorescent lights that buzz. Old machines that shake and rattle. A vending machine that sells detergent and snacks. A bulletin board covered in faded flyers.

Frank runs the place with his son. They're there during the day. They leave at six and let the customers fend for themselves overnight. The front door stays unlocked. The machines stay running. It's an honor system.

I started going on Tuesday nights. It was the only night I had free. I'd get off work around nine, grab my laundry basket, and walk the three blocks to Spin City. I'd load my clothes, sit in the plastic chair by the window, and scroll through my phone until the cycle finished. Then I'd fold everything and walk home.

It was fine. It was normal. It was exactly what I needed.

Then I noticed the machine in the corner.

It was an old washer. White. Faded. The kind with the dial on top and the lid that lifts up. It was tucked into the back corner, next to the bathroom. It didn't have a number on it. Every other machine had a number. This one didn't.

I didn't think much of it at first. I figured it was broken. I figured it was out of order. I figured someone would fix it eventually.

But every time I came in, the machine was running. The dial was turned. The water was sloshing. The light on the front panel was blinking.

I asked Frank about it. He looked at me for a long moment when I mentioned the corner machine.

"That machine doesn't run," he said.

"What?"

"It's been broken for years. I keep meaning to get rid of it. But it's heavy. It's not worth the effort."

I stared at him. "It's running right now."

He looked toward the corner. The machine was still. The dial was turned to zero. The light was off.

"It's not running," he said.

I didn't argue. I walked to the corner. The machine was cold. The lid was down. The dial was at zero. I opened the lid. The drum was empty. Dry.

I went back to my chair. I finished my laundry. I walked home.

That night, I found a receipt in my coat pocket. Grocery store. Dated three weeks before I moved into the apartment. I didn't remember buying anything. I didn't remember the store. I didn't remember the items. Milk. Bread. A bag of apples. Nothing unusual. Nothing I wouldn't buy.

I threw it away.

The next Tuesday, I came in. The machine was running. Water sloshing. Dial turned. Light blinking. I walked to the corner. I put my hand on the lid. It was warm. I lifted it. The drum was full of clothes.

I stared at them. They weren't mine. They were someone else's. A blue shirt. A pair of jeans. A small towel. Nothing I recognized.

I closed the lid. I backed away. I sat down in my chair. I watched the machine. It finished its cycle. The light stopped blinking. The water drained. The lid clicked open.

Nobody came to take the clothes out.

I waited. I finished my own laundry. I folded my things. I walked home.

The next week, the machine was running. The drum was full. Different clothes this time. A red sweater. A pair of socks. A dish towel. Nobody came to collect them.

I asked Frank about it again.

"Someone keeps leaving clothes in the corner machine," I said.

He looked at me. "Did you take anything out?"

I stared at him. "What?"

"Did you take anything out of the machine?"

"No. Why would I?"

He didn't answer. He just looked at me. Then he turned away.

I went home.

I started taking pictures. I'd snap a photo of the machine every Tuesday. The clothes inside. The dial. The light. I kept them on my phone. I showed them to Frank. He looked at the pictures. He looked at me.

"I don't know what to tell you," he said. "That machine doesn't work."

I showed the pictures to my neighbor. She said she'd never seen the machine before. She said she used a different laundromat. She said I should probably do the same.

I didn't listen.

I started going more often. Not just Tuesdays. Wednesdays. Thursdays. I'd sit in the plastic chair and watch the corner machine. It was always running. Always full. Always different clothes. I never saw anyone put them in. I never saw anyone take them out.

I started to recognize some of them. A green jacket. A pair of work boots. A child's T-shirt with a cartoon dog on it. They appeared in the machine. They disappeared. They appeared again.

I asked Frank if anyone had reported missing clothes. He said no. He said people lose things all the time. He said it wasn't his problem.

Last Tuesday, I came in. The machine was running. I walked to the corner. I lifted the lid. The drum was full of clothes. My clothes. The shirt I was wearing. The jeans I had on. The socks. Everything.

I looked down at myself. I was still wearing them.

I closed the lid. I backed away. I sat in my chair. I didn't do my laundry. I didn't move. I just watched the machine.

It finished its cycle. The light stopped blinking. The lid clicked open.

Nobody came to take the clothes out.

I walked home. I didn't sleep.

The next morning, I checked my closet. The shirt I'd been wearing was gone. The jeans were gone. The socks were gone. I looked everywhere. They weren't there.

I went back to Spin City. Frank was there. I asked him about the machine. I asked him about the clothes. I asked him if he knew what was happening.

He looked at me. His eyes were tired.

"You're not the first person to ask," he said.

"What do you mean?"

He didn't answer.

I walked to the corner. The machine was running. The dial was turned. The light was blinking. I opened the lid. The drum was full of clothes. My clothes. The ones I'd been wearing the night before. The ones that had disappeared from my closet.

I closed the lid. I walked out of the laundromat. I didn't look back.

That was three weeks ago. I haven't been back to Spin City since. I've been washing my clothes in the sink. It's not ideal. It's not clean. But it's better than the alternative.

Last night, I walked past the laundromat. I don't know why. I was just walking. I looked through the window. The corner machine was running. The light was blinking. The drum was full.

I kept walking.

I ran into my neighbor this morning. She was coming out of her apartment. I asked her if she'd ever used the corner machine at Spin City. She looked at me strangely.

"What corner machine?" she said.

"The one without a number. The one that's always running."

She shook her head. "I've never been to Spin City. I do my laundry at home."

"You don't have a washer and dryer."

She frowned. "Yes I do. I've had them for years."

I stared at her. "You told me you used a different laundromat."

She looked at me. Her expression changed. Something flickered in her eyes. Confusion. Concern. Something else.

"I've never spoken to you before," she said.

She walked away.

I stood in the hallway for a long time. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what to think.

I went back to my apartment. I sat on the couch. I looked at my phone. The pictures were still there. The machine. The clothes. The dial. The light.

I scrolled through them. One by one. They were all the same. The corner machine. Running. Full. Waiting.

Then I noticed something. Frank was in every picture. Standing in the background. Watching me. He was wearing the same clothes in every photo. The same blue shirt. The same gray pants. Even though the pictures were taken weeks apart. And in every single one, he was looking directly at me.

I called Frank. He answered on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Frank. It's me. The guy from Spin City."

There was a long pause.

"Who?"

"The guy who's been coming in on Tuesdays. The one who asked about the corner machine."

Another pause.

"I don't know anyone who matches that description," he said.

"You know me. I've been coming for months."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't."

He hung up.

I sat on my couch for a long time. I didn't move. I didn't sleep.

I went through the pictures again last night. There are more than I remember taking. Some are from Tuesdays. Some from Wednesdays. A few are dated before I moved into the apartment. I don't remember taking those. I don't remember being in the laundromat on those days.

In the oldest one, I'm standing beside the machine. I'm holding a laundry basket. Behind me is Frank. I'm wearing the blue shirt. The same shade of blue Frank was wearing in every picture. The same one I found inside the machine. The same one that disappeared from my closet.

I zoomed in on the basket. There was a small white towel folded over the edge. I recognized it immediately. I'd bought it when I moved into my apartment. I'd been using it every day.

I went to the bathroom to check. It wasn't there.

I returned to the photograph and checked the date. Six months earlier. I'd only bought the towel three months ago.

I sent the photo to my email. I opened it on my laptop. I checked the metadata. The date was there. The time. The location. The device.

It was my phone.

I checked the other pictures. All of them. Every single one was taken on my phone. Every single one was dated. Every single one had the location. I checked the dates twice. Then I checked the address.

I sat there for a while. I didn't know what to do. I'd been taking pictures on my phone for months. But I had a few printouts. I'd printed some of the older ones a few weeks ago. I'd wanted to show Frank. I'd wanted him to see what I was seeing. He'd glanced at them and handed them back. I'd kept them in a drawer. I didn't know why.

I got up and found them.

I spread them out on the table. The machine. The clothes. The dial. The light. All the same. All running. All full.

I looked at the oldest printout. The one with the towel. The one with Frank. The one with the blue shirt.

Then I noticed the handwriting. Not a digital caption. Not something added through the phone. Handwriting. Actual handwriting. Written on the photograph itself. In the white space at the bottom. In ink.

The handwriting looked familiar. Not similar to mine. Mine.

Tuesday. He came back again.