Page 21 of Riot

“Sorry to bother you,” she said, eyes darting to the end of my cigarette as if she could will it out by staring. She wore the same cardigan no matter the temperature, and I sometimes wondered if she was hiding bruises or just preferred the feeling of being wrapped tight.

“What’s the problem, Mrs. Hensley?” I asked, forcing a polite smile and grinding the smoke down to a nub against the wall. My patience was thinner than the soles of her canvas shoes, but I kept it together. I always did.

“The dryer is making a funny sound.”

“It’s a dryer,” I said. “Funny sounds are sort of their thing.”

She pursed her lips, the lipstick feathered into the lines above her mouth like a time-lapse photo of aging. She always smelled faintly of powder and peppermint, a combination that somehow managed to be both comforting and unsettling.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she repeated, but this time it sounded more like a warning. She’d stand there all afternoon if I didn’t follow her back inside and deal with whatever was wrong.

“Yep.” I made a show of dusting off my hands and rolled the tension out of my neck. I counted to three in my head then flicked the butt into the gutter where it landed among a hundred others. “Lead me to the tragedy.”

She turned, shuffling back through the door with the bag pressed so hard against her it looked like she might suffocate it. I followed, letting the door swing shut behind me with a soft clang.

I checked the clock on the wall. Only ten minutes had passed since the last time I’d looked.

Time should’ve been sprinting. I had plans, adult plans that mostly involved trying not to cover Riot in drool.

Inside, the heat slapped me in the face. The place smelled like detergent, hot cotton, and the ghost of bleach.

Three older women sat in plastic chairs near the folding tables, chatting like old friends.

The radio, locked to the oldies, was playing something horn-heavy and syrupy from a decade I’d never existed in. It mixed with the drone of the machines and the thumping of wet towels spinning so hard they might launch through the glass at any second. There should’ve been comfort in the monotony, but today every sound grated on me a little more than usual

Mrs. Hensley pointed at dryer fourteen. “That one. It squeaks.”

The funny-sounding machine was the big industrial dryer by the front window, the one everyone wanted because it was closest to the exit. I leaned down, pressing my ear against the humming steel drum. Sure enough, the sound was off. Not just the normal rattling of spare change and zippers, but something deeper, like a grinding from the inside out.

She leaned in like we were inspecting a crime scene. “Yes, that’s the noise,” she whispered.

Straightening, I popped the latch, letting the metal door swing open, and was hit with a blast of fabric-softener-scented steam.

Inside was a mess of sheets and towels, knotted together around a pair of gym shoes that looked like they’d been run through a woodchipper. I reached in, careful not to burn my hand, and fished out the culprit. Half a plastic spatula, melted and fused to the bottom of the dryer barrel.

“Fucking great,” I muttered, prying the spatula off with a screwdriver from my back pocket. Mrs. Hensley gasped.

“Oh dear. Is it… broken?”

The woman sounded like she’d just watched a surgeon pull an organ out of a patient.

“Nah, it’s fine. Just gotta scrape this off so it stops howling.” I worked at the mess while she watched, nerves ratcheting up with every clang of the screwdriver. It slipped, making me bust my knuckles. I cursed and worked at it with a vengeance. A melted piece of plastic would not get the better of me.

“I really am sorry to—”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, not unkindly. “Keeps the day interesting.”

Once the dryer was clear, I set it spinning again. The howl was gone, replaced by the ordinary thrum of moving parts. Satisfied, I wiped my hands on my pants and checked the time. Five minutes killed. That was it.

My shift was never going to end.

Mrs. Hensley appeared relieved. “Thank you, young man,” she said. “Sorry to bother you.”

“No problem.” I walked toward the door, ready to finish my break and think about Riot. “That’s what I’m here for. To mediate between customers and temperamental appliances.”

One of the other ladies, Mrs. Ortega, lifted a pair of enormous beige underwear from her basket and called across the room, “Young man, are these dryers running hot today?”

I paused then turned. “Are your clothes dry?”