I’m a crappy housekeeper. I’m sure there are women out there who keep a beautiful house throughout the winter. And here’s where my excuses make me quasi-legit: I’ve got two kids, two dogs, and a crafty husband whose artwork involves mounds of sawdust. So, with the weather turning, we’ve begun to spring clean—and that involves a trip to the Giant Wash down the street at Franklin and Clinton.
We sorted, hubby loaded, and I jetted the whole block to the Giant Wash with a carload full of forgotten sweaters, dog-damaged towels, crayon-stained tee shirts … I couldn’t see out of the back of our sedan, I had so much to do. I got three “giant” $7.50 loads done and was back to get three more gigantic ones, when there was excitement outside the laundromat. Before I opened my car, I looked down the strip mall to the store. I could see a semi-circle crowd backing away from what looked like girls fighting. I could see the tugging of a veil or headscarf and heard voices being raised. The door to the Mercado kept opening and closing and people moved away from the store.
I asked the mat’s attendant what’s going on and he said, “I dunno, so long as they keep the mess outside.” I turned back to my car and was again opening my door when I saw two women returning, covered in blood. I spoke up, and asked what happened. I’m an African American woman, I don’t speak another language, and I felt powerless to communicate with these blood-speckled women. One stood in front of the other as if to protect her. I asked them both—“Are you okay?”
The woman in front waved me off, shook her head. But the woman behind her had the stare of someone angry and ready to fight. She pushed her friend aside and made to come back outside where I stood. But she wasn’t looking at me, she was looking down the block toward the store.
I moved back from the lady in the ‘mat and turned to see what she saw: a thin, bloody woman. The other fighter. We watched her together. The sight of so much blood on the other fighter was jarring. Her once-white blouse clung to her lithe frame as she moved quickly in and out of the Mercado. A towel was given to her to staunch the blood streaming from her face. She held it there. Someone handed her a child, whom I guess she was screaming for. A girl no older than three was crying in her arms as she strode determinedly to her car. She put her child in her car seat.
