By Mario Kladis
“Sorry,” I said, “I don’t smoke.”
The guy bit his lip and stared at me, trying to decide if I was lying. There were still five or six quarters in my pocket, but I just sat there making my poker face. He shoved the lighter in his pocket and went up to an Asian woman measuring detergent: “Hey, se–ora, you need some pens? Two bucks.”
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I got up to fold my clothes and realized I had a headache. There was all this noise: dryers whirring, washers rattling, Johnny Mathis crackling from the piped-in AM radio. A lady was screaming into one of the pay phones. “I’m at a laundry-mat….A LAUNDRY-mat…on West Division…WEST Division….D-i-v…V…V, as in W, X, Y…V as in ‘vase.’…VASE….What you put flowers in?”
“You,” he said, waving the dollar at me. “You got change for a buck?”
The trucker shook his head. “No, it’s not that kind of emergency. Your car gets stole, you don’t call 911–you call the precinct. Do you got change?” He stared at me, waiting for an answer. The guy with the pens was smirking.
“No.”
