Mark Brazaitis
Laundry
Hector runs the laundry room.
He speaks to us from behind a counter.
Machines whirl behind him.
The room is hot and thick with humidity
and he’s sweating,
but it’s okay, he says,
because—hey—it’s cold outside.
He likes his job; it’s one of the best
an inmate can have, he says.
“A lot of times,” he says, “you don’t have nothing
to do.”
He must be thirty-two, thirty-five.
His face is lined, however,
and his black, curly hair
is sprinkled with gray
or maybe only with lint.
He explains his work:
He gives each incoming inmate
a bed roll (a sheet, a blanket, two towels),
five shirts, five pairs of underwear,
five pairs of socks,
five pairs of pants.
He gives each a “hygiene kit”
a disposable razor,
a tiny can of shaving cream,
a tube of toothpaste,
a toothbrush.
If an inmate wants anything else—floss,
mouthwash, balm for chapped lips
or dry hands—
he has to buy it
at the commissary.
Over the course of a week,
Hector and the men he oversees
wash the entire prison population’s clothes,
each article of which is marked, in black,
with the inmate’s number.
Hector gazes at our group,
wonders if we have questions.
I sense he wants to keep his audience,
so I ask him three.
He works, he says, eight to ten hours a day.
He makes 40 cents an hour.
He spends most of his money on phone calls home.
A phone call, he adds, costs $3.15
for fifteen minutes.
I calculate: to make a half an hour call,
he must work fifteen hours and 45 minutes.
He asks for more questions.
No one has them. The group
shuffles out of the room.
I linger. He catches my eye, says,
“Every week, if I can, I call my daughter.
She’s eight. I’ll ask her questions, but
sometimes we don’t have much to say
to each other.”
I offer sympathetic words.
“It’s okay, man, it’s okay.
As long as she’s on the other end,
I don’t mind paying for silence.
Besides, every so often,
I can hear her breathe.”