2016 – Day 35

Start writing a story that...

Step 1: starts with this dialogue: Don't answer the phone

Step 2: include the dialogue: We have to go now

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"Don't answer the phone," Uncle Ilya says as he stands beside the counter at his laundromat. He puts his hand on the dusty receiver for emphasis.

"What if it's a customer?" I ask.

"No customers call. If they do, they get message with hours and directions. Come."

He leads me toward the back of the enormous room. We walk past rows of industrial washing machines and dryers. It's Tuesday evening and only a handful are running. I smile as we pass an older woman folding shirts, but she sees my uncle and looks away.

We approach a door along the back wall, and Uncle Ilya hands me a key chain.

"If detergent machine runs out, get more here," he says, then turns to look at me. "Never give directly to customer. Refill machine first, then customer will buy."

I nod as I meet his intense stare. I've known Uncle Ilya since I was two, so he doesn't frighten me too much, but in moments like this I recognize why my friends nicknamed him Uncle Scary.

"Are you sure he's not a gangster?" Jake once asked.

"Of course not!" I said. "He's nice when you get to know him."

And he was nice, at least to me. He was my mother's brother and he often visited us when I was little, bringing presents no matter the occasion. But I also remember seeing him get mad at waiters in restaurants or store cashiers. He never yelled, but spoke loudly at first, then lowered his voice until it was barely audible. He'd speak in quiet, measured tones, sounding out his words syllable by syllable, until the offending party apologized and whatever was bothering him got fixed.

At the laundromat, we return to the front and go behind the counter. The entire section stands on a platform two feet above the floor, giving us a good vantage point above the entire room. Uncle Ilya points at a stool, the only piece of furniture tucked behind the counter.

"Sit here and watch. If anything happens, you text me."

I'm about to ask what anything means, when the door jingles and a man in a brown suit enters and approaches my uncle. He whispers something in Uncle Ilya's ear, then turns back to exit.

"We have to go now," Uncle Ilya says as he grabs his jacket from the counter.

"You're not leaving me alone yet, are you?" I am panicking. A five-minute tour can't be considered sufficient training before leaving someone in charge of an entire business.

"You will be fine," he says. "We will come back soon. Just text."

He moves swiftly out the door. Through the window, I see him climb in a car with the man in the brown suit, then they speed out of the parking lot.

Now alone behind the counter, I survey the room. In addition to the older woman folding shirts, I see a man with white hair moving clothes from a washer to a dryer, and two girls about my age laughing as they stuff clothes into a washer. The room is quiet now except for the thumping of a single dryer and the hum of rows of florescent lights. I reach down and pull a book and binder out of my backpack. It pays better than a work study, I think. I find the right page in the book and begin my reading assignment.