The Laundry Man
Mr Wrinklefree had long pointed ears. He is the man to look for if you want your laundry done. In a fictional town called Ashby, laundry services for guests include but are not limited to, washing, straightening and ironing for a price, of course. Mr Wrinklefree twitched his pointy ears, his eyes slit upwards like calligraphy brush strokes curling skyward, poised for combat, he smiled and asked in a singsong voice, “how may I help you today?”
He had a round white container of… presumably soap grains, in one hand and there were minuscule bits of white powder smeared on the tips of his fingers of his two outstretched hands. He arched his fingers backwards to form a crooked branch and looked me in the eye, as if to convey the unvoiced impression that, it is me you seek. Or was I hearing things?
“It is you, I seek!” I exclaimed. “I have this big bag of clothes that need washing!”
“You have come to the right man.” He nodded proudly, still smiling affably. His ears profusely twitching now. In the background, the contemptuous sounds of the groaning turbines grew more insistent.
I stepped back a little intimidated by this short elvish-looking man in a white laboratory coat, with a container of what must be a magic potion of some making. His fingers… He brought me to my senses by inquiring, “when would you like your clothes? Today is Monday…”
“Hmm… we leave on Saturday, so maybe Friday?”
“Leave it with me and it shall be done…” he assured me in the selfsame melodic singsong voice. “When it is completed, when it is done, I shall give you an invoice and you can pay at the reception. If you like my service, you can give me a tip” he politely angles his head, his eyebrow stretched from end to end and he smiles.
“Of course! Mzuri sana (very well), I shall let my husband know.”
As soon as the first batch of clothes was delivered to the apartment, I noticed a stack of invoices, as crisp as the well-pressed ironed shirts folded along strict lines, was tucked beneath that stack of firmly squared shirts. The invoice reads ‘WRINKLE FREE CLOTHES’ charges you the following… the balance of the sheet is set out in neatly itemised rows listing each and every piece of clothing we had laundered. Total, 2, 200 shillings.
I shook my eyeballs in disbelief at first. As I went down the list, it became abundantly clear that the service was impeccable. If you just took a whiff of the freshness in the cotton, see how its fold adheres to the correct angles. I could not help myself, but had to say it aloud, “you need to give the laundry guy a tip!”
I did not ask again if he did, as the laundry completely fell out of my mind, completely (kabisa)! I no longer thought about dirty clothes. Not a single second of the day was spent on washing. Suddenly, it was magical to be unconcerned with washing.
On what feels like the third or fourth day, I still remember the brilliance in the blue sky that Wednesday, when a batch of clothes was sent up. This time instead of the pages of itemised clothing, there was only one printed row on a white sheet of paper, it read ‘WRINKLE FREE CLOTHES’ charges you the following…
Unit M’s clothes. Half a day load………………. Total 500 shillings.
I thought nothing more of Mr Wrinklefree thereafter.
I ran into Mr Wrinklefree again by pure chance when I was picking up groceries downstairs. He was at his most pleasant in his usual white labcoat with deep pockets. I wonder what he puts in those pockets was the thought that popped into my mind. Just then, Mr Wrinklefree sharply turned to me smiling from ear to ear, “have a good day, M’adam.” He said politely while twitching those pointed ears. I smiled at him and hurried on.
“Did you give the laundry a tip, darling? Mmm…?”
“I did! Quite a bit, too!”
“How much did you give him?”
“A couple of thousand, maybe…? Funny I don’t quite remember… you do know that he is… ” Before he could finish, he fished out several receipts from his breast pocket and a toothpick. “I don’t know how these got here… hey, do you know what day it is?” he muttered.
“Did you notice… the clothes smell…” before I could finish, my husband suddenly exclaimed,
“Hang on… (ding dong) there is someone at the door!”
He was right. At this exact moment, Mr Wrinklefree was at the door, brushing his pinafore. Wait, what is he…wearing? I did not have time to make any talk because, with a flick of his branched fingers, his men carried in two large tubs of beautifully folded, sweet-smelling clothes. I noticed that there was no sign of an invoice lying in the tubs that day.
