The night was just beginning. It had been more than fifteen minutes since Erika had left and my shift had begun. Yet another routine night was starting. I sat behind the counter, my favorite spot, my throne from where I watched over the washers and dryers. Not that there is much action but I tend to think my presence makes a difference. The most transcendental thing that usually happens is to kick the dryers a couple of times to get them started.
I love working at night, the solitude and quiet are my companions. Besides, I take the opportunity to dedicate myself to my greatest passion, writing. My greatest desire is to become a great writer and move to the big city, where action and technological advances meet.
It's amazing to believe that these things still run on gas. Fortunately, during winter nights they keep the heat inside. But tonight is one of those hellish, hot, sticky nights. Despite having a fan over my head, what it does is overwhelm me with the heat wave the dryers produce.
I leaned back and began to observe from my pedestal the customers who usually visit the establishment at this late hour of the night.
I often wonder why they always come at this late hour of the night. What kind of life do they live? Doesn't the routine drive them crazy? I have never dared to ask them anything, but I love to give them nicknames to remember them by.
Mrs. Juanita, whose name is not Juanita, although I assume she is of Cuban descent, perhaps Puerto Rican? Am I racist to call her that? Anyway, she is always in a hurry and usually comes with a big bag full of dirty clothes. Does she live with a football team in her house? She is usually very warm, and always greets with a "Good evening" and "See you soon" when she leaves. I usually remind her not to forget her soap and fabric softener, even though company policy is not to be responsible for items left in the laundry room.
Isn't that a license to steal from customers?
Then there's François, obviously not his name either, but he has a bohemian (French?) air about him, with his lanky frame, carefree gait, and nicotine-stained hands. A chain smoker, of whom I would dare to say, from the multicolored stains on his clothes, that he is a painter. And I don't mean the kind who paints the interiors of houses. Perhaps he is another dreamer who hopes to escape from this forgotten town.
And as precise as clockwork, Habib enters, right at 12 o'clock at night. This gentleman always greets me with "Salam Alaikum". Is it necessary to say his ethnicity? Let's hope he is not a Mossad or ETA sleeper agent. They are always the people you least think about.
I lazily stretch and glance at my watch. It's already close to 2 am and I think no one else must be coming. But to my surprise, the bell at the entrance rings again announcing a new customer.
The stranger is wearing a hoodie and dark glasses.
Who the hell wears dark glasses at 2 am?
He nods at me and I glance at the big red sign on the wall: NO CASH ACCEPTED.
I think he gets my hint and he bows his head again and takes a seat. I think it would be foolish to steal this kind of business. These pieces of junk aren't worth their weight in the rusty metal they're made of.
However, without making any sudden moves and looking away discreetly (as if I wasn't interested in what was going on around me), I animated my smartphone, under the counter, and quickly keyed in the 911 numbers.
I pick up my pencil again and start scribbling on my pad. I write down how the guy who just walked in was dressed and also my last will. Although I don't think I have much to leave and to whom either.
My breathing stops when the lights in the establishment go out, for some reason I don't know. Darkness reigns in the atmosphere. Beads of sweat begin to trickle down my forehead. Unexpectedly, one of the dryer doors emits a pink beam of light, which becomes more and more intense. My eyes contract, but they don't stop searching for the stranger who has just entered.
"What the hell!"
My attention is diverted when I hear the dryer door open from inside. It swings from side to side and with difficulty a huge guy emerges, or at least I think he is, maybe over six feet tall, of a strange purple color. His stocky, muscular build, with a rough, rugged texture, reminds me of tree bark.
My legs are still numb from being crisscrossed. I want to run but I can barely move. His eyes, small and penetrating, rest on me. A tone of voice perhaps born from the deepest depths of the abysses of hell emerges from his square, protruding jaw
"What is the name of this place?"
I am still paralyzed, my lips tremble, trying to make way for some sound from my throat. The giant grows impatient. Every step he takes towards me is as if it reverberates throughout my entire being. However, a new voice, less scary than the previous one, resounds from an unknown place.
"Leave that poor fellow alone."
The stranger turns and is riddled with aces of light that bounce off his body having little effect on him. Still, destroying everything in its path. I hide behind the glass counter and watch as the two characters fight an epic battle. As heavy as the huge purple guy used to look, I am amazed by his agility and superhuman strength.
Each blow that both beings strike at each other, shakes the foundations of the place and cracks the floor.
I sneak behind some laundry baskets while the titans fight.
The big purple man lifted one of the washing machines as if it were made of paper and threw it with all his strength towards the other guy, the latter dodged it and the washing machine destroyed the wall of the establishment, leaving a huge hole behind it. Fortunately, outside, the streets are empty.
Finally, the fight is over and I pray that it's the good guy who won.
The guy in the sweatshirt, now in tatters, comes towards me and I can't take my eyes off him. Not only is one of his limbs made of metal but also part of his chest. Even though his forearm is shooting out fleeting sparks, he pays no attention to this.
"I'm sorry for the damage. I hope this makes up for it."
The strange cyborg leaves a bundle of money on what's left of the counter. He turns back to the other fellow and picks it up with one hand and tosses it back toward the inside of the dryer.
Before leaving, he warns me.
"You'd better close the door to this appliance when I'm gone. You don't want another Orchallen coming out of it, do you?"
With my eyes extremely wide and my mouth hanging open, all I could do was nod my head.
He nods his as well and disappears into the interior of the old hulk.
Cautiously, I approach the door of the dryer and peek inside it's like looking out of a window into another unknown world, with flying vehicles and beings as exceptional as the pair I had just met. Some of them were setting up containment barriers on the other side of the entrance.
The robot policeman, as I decided to call him, raised his index finger at me, and in panic, I slammed the dryer door shut. The light from the few fluorescent bulbs that weren't damaged during the fight came back on. Most of the washing machines were shattered, as were parts of the ceiling and floor of the room.
Out of curiosity, I opened the dryer door again, but its contents were as dark as usual. It might look like I had dreamed it all but the damage and the hole in the wall were as real as the money the robot cop had left behind.
Maybe no one would believe me what had happened but one thing I was sure of, I had underestimated how special this town I loathed so much was.
Image by Ryan McGuire at Pixabay
