The Morning the Dryer Door Wouldn’t Open
It was still dark when I walked in. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like they were trying to stay awake, same as me. The laundromat off Oakton in Des Plaines had that kind of silence you only hear in the early hours — before the first regulars show up, before the rush of quarters in the coin slot and the rhythm of the spin cycles fills the air.
I was unlocking the soap cabinet when I noticed the red blinking light on Dryer #6. Normally, that meant the cycle was done. But the door wouldn’t open. Not jammed — locked. Like it knew.
I tried again. Yanked once. Nothing. Then again, with more force than I needed. The handle cracked in my palm. Plastic snapped like a cheap promise.
That dryer had four bags of laundry inside. Hotel linens. Promised by noon. White towels and sheets from a place near O’Hare that paid cash and didn’t ask questions.
I just stood there, breathing through my teeth, watching the red light blink like it was counting down to something I couldn’t stop.
The First Machine I Lost
That dryer was the first one that ever quit on me completely. I’d had others give me problems — belts slipping, doors slamming crooked, buttons sticking in the summer heat. But this one? This one shorted out in a way I didn’t know how to fix.
It hummed when it shouldn’t. Stayed locked even unplugged. I opened the back and stared at wires like spaghetti cooked wrong. Burnt ends. A smell that hit the back of my throat and stayed there. I knew, deep down, I’d killed it.
The worst part? I knew it was coming. The weeks before, it had taken longer and longer to dry. It started with an hour-fifteen for a basic load, then an hour-forty. I told myself it was the cold. Or the heavy towels. Or maybe the lint filters weren’t catching what they used to.
But it was none of that.
It was me, not listening.
Why I Didn’t Schedule the Maintenance
There’s no mystery to it. I didn’t want to spend the money. That’s it. I had the flyer from the service guy who came once every fall to check the seals and vents. I had his card. I had his number saved under “Richie D – Machines.” He even texted me once that month — “You want your usual checkup?”
I left him on read.
Because that week I needed to make payroll. Because that month the boiler needed flushing. Because I thought, maybe, I could stretch another few weeks. Maybe a belt would cost less than a full inspection.
Maybe the machine would fix itself.
That’s the lie I told myself. And it’s the one I still hate the most.
What I Found When I Took the Panel Off
It was black inside. Not just dark — black. Smoke had scorched the lining around the circuit board. One of the wires had fused itself to the metal casing like it was trying to escape and failed halfway.
I remember crouching there, hands trembling, holding a flashlight in my mouth and a screwdriver I didn’t even need, because I didn’t want to admit I had no plan.
The lint was thick. Caked in the corners like insulation. Bits of plastic melted to the vent. I scraped some off with the back of a spoon. It came away in greasy, brittle flakes like dried skin.
And the motor — the heart of the thing — was still hot. Still buzzing.
I stood up too fast and cracked the top of my head on the shelf above it. I tasted copper. Sat down on the floor and laughed like an idiot. Because the towels still needed drying. Because there was no backup. Because I had no idea how to tell the client.
The Call I Didn’t Want to Make
I put it off until 10 a.m. — when the hotel manager would be expecting me. I dialed her number from the back alley, staring at the side of the building where the dryer vents exhaled like tired lungs.
She picked up fast. “We ready to roll?”
I lied.
Said the van had a flat. That I’d need another hour. Maybe two. I felt my mouth go dry after the words came out.
I still think about that. About how I lied, not because I was lazy or selfish — but because I was ashamed. Because I’d known that machine was dying, and I let it die anyway. Like so many other things in my life.
She said, “Okay.” Hung up before I could say anything else.
I sat down on a milk crate and cried harder than I’d let myself in months.
The Day I Started Greasing the Gears Again
It took three days to get a replacement motor. The old one sat in a bucket behind the counter like a head on a spike. Every time I passed it, I felt like it was judging me.
I spent those three days calling other laundromats. Trying to rent dryer time like some rookie who didn’t know better. I loaded up the back of my truck with baskets and promises, drove back and forth across Des Plaines and Park Ridge, praying for open machines and mercy.
When the new part came, I installed it myself. Didn’t trust anyone else to touch it after what I’d done. I cleaned every vent, every hose, every fan blade and wheel like I was scrubbing a wound.
That night, after I finished the install, I stayed late. Ran two loads of old towels through the new motor. Sat on the folding table watching the drums spin like a hypnotist.
That machine hummed like forgiveness.
I didn’t deserve it, but I took it anyway.
What I Know Now
People love to say “those machines are built tough.” And they are. But that’s the problem — they lull you into thinking they’ll never die.
But they do.
Not with a bang. Not even with a wheeze.
They die quietly, when you’re not looking, because you stopped listening.
You ever try keeping a business alive with one hand while the other holds together a machine that’s begging to fall apart?
I have.
I don’t check the calendar anymore. I check the belts. I check the filters. I put my ear to the drum like it’s whispering secrets about how much life it has left.
Anyway — that’s how it went down.
Not proud of it, but it’s mine.
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