1.
Head out to the store and buy some
"washing-up powder." Enjoy this step. It is to be the last one that
is so straightforward.
2.
Read the manual for the new machine,
all white and shiny, sitting on your balcony. In noting that it says,
"CAUTION: REMOVE WASHER FROM CARTON BEFORE OPERATING", manhandle the
machine out of the carton base that the builders neglected to remove. Note - it
is a washing machine, so it's pretty heavy. Wear sturdy shoes.
3.
Hook the drain hose per the pictured
instructions, but improvise when you realise the instructions are for two
different models and there's no telling which one yours is. Smile in the knowledge
that you can handle this, and plug in the newly purchased extension cord, out
the door of the unit and onto the balcony.
4.
Dump in clothes and soap; ignite,
using the happy button panel with its many clever icons and snappy slogans like
"Fuzzy Wash." Never mind that the indicator lights are nearly
invisible in daylight and completely contradictory of one another. Surely this
does not matter.
5.
Listen closely. If water is not
forthcoming, open the tap behind the machine.Wonder idly if someone might have
told you these steps were necessary. Smugly think to yourself, "I got
this, no prob."
6.
When the water and suds shoot up out
of the drain hose, grab the wriggling hose mid-air and stuff it down the drain
pipe. But don't unhook it prematurely, because that makes the machine shut
itself off. Get a Coke and wait.
7.
Wonder if you should do something
about the power cord and extension that are strung through the puddle around
the base of the machine. Gingerly remove them and place them on the sill for
safekeeping, while the drain fights to keep up with the rushing water.
8.
When the machine inexplicably stops
rinsing, long before the soap is out of the fabric, jigger with the buttons
again, and try to make sense of the indicator lights. Curse once or twice.
9.
Try lifting up the hose and putting
it in its hook again. Watch the water begin to enter again – that’s good – but
also how the countdown clock inexplicably stops – odd. See the water rise and
rise until it is ready to overflow. Turn off the water. Lament your soggy
clothes.
10.
Pause the machine and look for
something harder than Coke.
11.
Jigger with the buttons and indicator lights again. Stand
back a bit but then swoop in to catch the hose as it again shoots out splurts
of water. Stuff it back down the drain pipe and wait for the rinsing and spinning
to complete.
12.
Stomp your foot like a nine-year-old when
the machine instead drains out all the water out without rinsing or spinning.
13.
Ask your boyfriend to have a look at
it, and try not to hit him when he laughs at you.
14.
Leave the clothes in the machine,
and go to sleep frustrated.
15.
The next day, try to get help from
your landlord, which is also your employer, and which moved you into this apartment to save money.
Wince when your company contact says, "Well, I'm not a plumber! And I
don't have time for this! And the owner isn't picking up his phone!"
Comfort her because it's not her fault. Await the arrival of the owner, which -never-
happens.
16.
On the morning of the second day
without help, take the wet clothes from the drum (yes, ooh, they stink now,
don't they?) to apartment 409 down the hall, which key was pushed under your door last night for this purpose. Balancing the bags of wet clothes, try the key over and
over. Realise it is the bedroom key, not the front door key. Curse. Return to
your own apartment with the wet clothes still in their plastic bags.
17.
Call the security guard to ask for
the key to unit 408, which is currently empty but has a washing machine on its balcony, too. Take clothes, washing powder,
computer and work to the balcony of that unit; start over.
18.
Start that washer - a different model - following its
package instructions. Load half the clothes, since the load that fits in your
balcony's machine is twice the size of the load that will fit in this machine.
Watch as the half-load of clothes spin and whirl without any fresh water, with
soap particles polka-dotting across the twisting fabrics. Wonder if they smell
any better than the other half-load, which is sitting next to you on the
balcony chair with an aroma not entirely unlike wet dog.
19.
Test the water tap, and marvel at
how it is actually open, which means there is no physics-based impediment to
water actually entering the machine, and yet, miraculously, water still does
not come.
20.
Ask the guard to help. Watch him
press the machine rivets as if they were buttons. Ask him if he has ever worked
a washing machine before, and witness how offended he is as he answers,
"No, my wife does the laundry. This is not work for a man." Thank him and send him on his way.
21.
Play with the buttons again, and
rejoice when water begins to enter the drum, through no apparent action of your
own. Accept that the universe has the right to do such things on your behalf.
Settle in to work and watch the cycle.
22.
Watch the cycle. It is ten minutes
long, according to the countdown timer. It is very soapy and will surely get
rid of that mildewy funk your clothes had when you put them in there. Wonder
idly why a second cycle begins after that one, but continue working on your
computer, watching out of the corner of your eye. The machine is just getting started with you; there is no rush. Allow
a third cycle, fourth and a fifth to take place before you decide you must take
action.
23.
Pause the fifth cycle as the
countdown clock runs out. Spin the lighted dial to "rinse and spin."
Suffer mightily when the machine does neither, even when you restart the
machine.
24.
Press start one last time, getting
exasperated. Get very excited when it starts, watch for five minutes as it
spins. It may not have rinsed as well as you might have preferred, but perhaps
soon you can drag the soap-smelling clothes into the light of day and hang them
to dry. See how things work out when you are patient!
25.
Leave the machine for a moment to
get a cup of tea. Wonder idly about the construction-type sounds you are
hearing from the balcony, since there is actually construction going on, just
outside. When finally the sounds get a little too close for comfort, turn to look.
Leap up from your chair. Quickly now!
26.
Dash to the balcony, where the
machine is literally bouncing around of its own accord. See the machine turned
180 degrees from where it was, bashing itself against the wall and glass door,
tethered only by its water hose to the opposite wall. Shriek if you must, but
it's not strictly necessary. Or terribly helpful.
27.
Unplug the machine, and pant,
waiting for the bouncing/dancing to stop - even though it takes a rather
unnerving thirty additional seconds. Remind yourself that it is not demon-possessed. It is only a washing machine.
28.
Spin the machine back to face you.
Open the door to the machine. When it will not open, pull harder. Face the
realization that it will not open unless it is plugged in.
29.
Brace yourself. Plug the machine back
in. As the machine begins again to bounce and gyrate, open the door to the
machine. Try not to think about it. Reach in and feel your hand burn in the
fabric that must be over 70 degrees. Unplug the machine and watch it bounce again to a halt.
30.
Call the security guard, and explain
what has happened. See him trace the pattern in the balcony dirt, like a CSI
cop, noting that the machine must have spun 180 degrees. Endure stoically that
he didn’t believe you without this evidence, as well as his exhortations that
you "be easy, be easy." Grab up the wet clothing and towels, computer
and teacup and go back to your apartment to fume alone. Give the security guard
the key to the neighbor's apartment, and refuse the third apartment key he
offers you "to try again."
31.
Call the company contact and tell
her this is not working. Commiserate on how crappy the company is that they
have left her in this position without LOE or full support. Don't wonder where that leaves you; that's a dead-end thought.
32.
Wait while the company contact phones the owners again, then wait for the owner to show up with
his plumber “in ten minutes.” Continue waiting for 90 more minutes, for all the
good it will do you.
33.
Bundle up all clothes - the
half-rinsed ones that don't smell quite as bad, the two-days-in-the-drum ones
that are really musky, and the comparatively dry-ish ones you've sweated
through getting to this point. Make a beeline for the laundry desk at the posh Serena Hotel.
34.
Watch the Serena laundry clerk lay
out this assortment of clothes and towels on a desk that has heretofore seen
mostly suits and dresses from fine brand names. Be patient as she tallies and
double-counts each pair of panties, each small and large towel, each sock and
t-shirt. Roll your eyes privately when she tallies two pairs of socks as
"4" on the list.
35.
Continue to watch as she tots up the
cost on the laundry form, tallying the extended cost twice for each line item.
10 towels at 85 rupees each, she calculates twice on the calculator: and
miracle of miracles, it comes out as 850 rupees both times. Give a passing
thought to the state of the Pakistani education system. Watch her add up the
total, twice, and add tax. Twice.
36.
Give her a curious look as she then
picks up the phone and calls someone, speaking in Urdu. Listen as she speaks
rapidly, but catch those key words: “smells bad” and “very wet.” Allow
"curious" to morph into "furious" when she then says,
"No wash, Madam. Cannot no. Is wet." Feel abject incredulity wash
over you when you ask why she counted out all the wet, stinky items, if she had never intended to accept the clothes for the
laundry. Ask for the manager.
37.
Begin to cry when the manager
insists that it is the hotel's policy not to accept wet laundry. Stifle the urge to quibble with his vocabulary and comprehension when he says, "It's
not a matter of exception, Madam. It is the hotel policy," over and over.
38.
Explain that you have no clean
underwear, and demonstrate the fact if necessary. Emphasise that you have
stayed in the hotel for six months at great cost, and surely deserve just one
small exception to the policy. Put your face in your hands and bite back your
anger as the lack of food and overabundant emotions start to take their toll.
Beseech, plead, and, yes, beg.
39.
When asked, accept all conditions -
such as twice as long to receive your clothes, and full responsibility for
damage to the clothes by the frightful spectre of "colour bleeding." Secretly note that there
is remarkably little chance of that given that your clothes have been wet for
two days. You may raise an eyebrow or roll your eyes if it will make you feel
better, since the manager is only on the phone and not in front of you.
40.
Sign away all responsibility. Thank
the manager and the shopgirl profusely for this shitty treatment, if you feel
so inclined.
41.
Go immediately to the nearest frozen
yogurt shop and get a large cup with scoops from each and every tin of
sprinkles, fruit sauces, candy bits, chocolate chips and nuts. Do not blink when it comes
to 750 rupees on the scale. Eat this and get a frozen headache. Rejoice. You
will have clean clothes in less than 48 more hours.
42.
Send yogurt bill to your employer,
who put you up in a unit without sufficient support to begin with. Send them
the laundry bill as well, but don’t expect them to pay it.Whatever you do, do
NOT count the hours wasted on this exercise, taking on the burden of time and
cost that your company shunted in your path. You don't want to know.
No comments:
Post a Comment