Tactical Laundry

Break is over, and everyone is back in the I-House. I was happy for the return to hustle and bustle, until early Saturday morning when I tried to run my sheets down to the basement for the wash. For the first time in about a month I arrived to find every machine was full, and two or three students milling, (apparently aimlessly), watching the clothes turn. The sound of churning water mingled with the thick smell of tension.

You’re not a true student until you’ve done the tactical laundry run. Back in England my student house was the crummiest of hovels: but it did have its own washing machine, and enough clothesline space that me and my housemates could get by easily enough without rising to each other’s throats. Back in residential halls however- or if you have to get by at a Laundromat- the weekly wash becomes a whole different ball game. There are about fifteen washers in the I-House basement. Fifteen washers, roughly six hundred residents. You may think it’s a miracle anyone can get clean: but here are some tips on tactical laundering that will help you become a tactical, a passive-aggressive- or a flat out bully launderer.

First off, know your time: never go to wash your clothes on a Sunday. Sunday is the day everyone realizes they’re down to their last pair of jocks and will have to go to class wearing trunks or bikini bottoms the next day if they don’t do a very speedy turnover. Avoid evenings and early mornings, aim for the middle of the day- preferably during the week while a big chunk of the residents are in class.

Secondly, know your enemy. Look around you, as you gear up for the wash.

 A tactical launderer will be standing eyeing the amount of time left on the various machines, fiddling with a handful of quarters so they don’t look as though they’re actively sharking around the machines. But they’re smart and will often nip in ahead of you before you can do anything about it.

If you go away to get a coffee while your machine is on the spin cycle, and return to find your wet clothes dripping on the nearby table while a totally alien wash flounders in the machine you’ve got a passive-aggressive launderer on your hands. Passive-aggressives are most famous for their ‘disappearing clothes’ trick, where they whip your entire wardrobe out of the machine and dump it in some obscure corner of the basement to fester. They’re irritating because a lot of the time you never actually see them; although they also have a habit of standing silently behind you, staring at your basket with hungry eyes.

If, as you’re piling the whites and darks in together, a shadow falls across you and you stare up at a hulking great figure with a wicker basket in one hand and a bottle of Tide in the other, who growls ‘How much longer are you gonna be?’, that’s a bully launderer. They use intimidation techniques to try and make you move faster. 

Those are the three main categories of launderer to look out for. My third tip is to keep an eye on the clock. I can square off to a bully launderer easily enough, but I can’t bear the passive-aggressives, who think it’s totally fine to manhandle my clothes onto a nearby table and leave them there, gently infusing with the smell of damp. Clothes take half an hour to wash, make sure you get back to the basement in time to grab them before someone else does. Same with the dryers, just calculate for 45 minutes instead of half an hour. Get down there and every machine is full? Check how much longer the cycles will run for and time your return accordingly.

I’m primarily a tactical launderer. I’m not big enough to intimidate anyone, and I’m just a bit too uptight to be comfortable with the idea of moving a stranger’s wet clothes (although when I did arrive one weekend to find my own laundry passive-aggressively displaced, I did open the culprit’s washer and throw a red sock in among their white sheets). But I got down there on Saturday to find all the machines full, and three other students hovering around, eyeing each other up as they hefted their baskets behind them. All of us locked eyes: this was essentially the Hunger Games of Hygiene. May the odd socks be ever in my favour.

The Danger Zone

One of the machines freed up, and as the laundry was unloaded, two of the hoverers zeroed in on the washer. The first guy staked out a claim by dumping his basket down close to the machine, but made the fatal error of not having the right amount of quarters, and had to make a dash to the change machine. In the time that took, his competitor shunted the basket a few inches to the right with his foot, and, at the speed of lightning unloaded and slammed the door shut just as the first boy returned. Keen as I was to watch the ensuing silent fracas, I was distracted by a girl at the far end of the washers. Her machine was in the narrowest part of the basement, and I set course down there, as speedily as I could without drawing attention to myself. I was just reaching her, when I noticed a guy coming in hard on the left, clearly aiming for the same machine. We sized each other up. He was big, and wearing one of those sleeveless basketball shirts and a backwards cap, and he was giving me a ‘danger’ look, but as he hadn’t jumped in with an ‘Are you finished with this machine?’ he apparently wasn’t a bully. The issue was the space. If we both went diving for the machine straight away we’d probably knock into each other, the girl unloading would get jostled, and then we’d both look like monsters. He stared into my eyes and mouthed “I will end you.”

[Okay, It was possibly a yawn, but the sentiment was very real]

Suddenly the girl was standing between us, looking decidedly confused as she headed for the dryer. It was a split second that lasted a lifetime; I slithered past her, lunged for the machine and threw in a pair of skinny jeans, claiming it as my own. WIN. I would live to wash another day.

Think I’m sad, or possibly a little anal-retentive?

I don’t care. I haven’t run out of underwear since last August.