THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, July 7, 1996 TAG: 9607030106
SECTION: REAL LIFE PAGE: K1 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: REAL PLACES
SOURCE: BY WENDY GROSSMAN, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: 86 lines
IT'S EARLY evening and folks are laughing and knocking back icy beers at Elliot's or catching the early show at the Naro.
Across Colley Avenue in Overton's, people aren't having as much fun. They're not having any fun at all.
They're doing laundry.
Most of the 48 washers and 35 dryers - at least the ones that work - are humming and buzzing along. One guy's got eight washers going.
People are yanking their dirty clothes out of trash bags, pouring gooey blue soap and trying to stuff crumpled bills into the change machine. A few are pounding on dryers that aren't working.
Some go running, shopping or grab a beer. But most sit.
They read, do the crossword puzzle, watch Channel 3 News on the TV in the corner, make a phone call, or run over to Papa Johns and get a pizza
From 8 a.m. until 10:30 p.m. people do laundry at Overton's. At 11 p.m. the lights go off. If your clothes are still wet, tough.
In the movies there's love in the Laundromat. But not at Overton's.
Maybe the lights are too harsh, the people too sweaty and tired.
Some smile at neighbors or familiar faces. But mainly they sit.
And wait.
And wait.
Paint dries faster than clothes.
Bill Magnusson, 34, and his girlfriend went for a cappuccino and a bowl of soup while his clothes were in the wash. Now, she's sleeping with her head on her lap while they wait for his clothes to dry.
Magnusson actually owns both a washer and a dryer - but his apartment doesn't have a hookup. He wishes it did.
A few, frustrated, or out of change, go home with soggy clothes.
But worse than going home with wet clothes is going home with no clothes.
When his back was turned, Robert Hurdle, 44, once lost an entire load of wet socks, and his new white sneakers.
That's why he never sits down and reads. ``I kinda hang close to my clothes now,'' he says, standing two feet away from the dryers, staring intently at his 10 loads of clothes.
Even if the clothes bandits don't strike, the Laundromat is siphoning his cash, he says.
``If the price of laundry keeps going up, I'm going to have to join a nudist colony,'' he says. ``Back in my college days dryers were a dime and washers were a quarter. So you could do your laundry with just a couple of dollars.''
Today he spends over $20 a week. But, sometimes he gets a show more racy than if he'd bought a ticket to the Naro movie theater across the street.
``I saw this guy come in, take his clothes off and wash them,'' Hurdle says. ``He took off his jeans, socks shoes and shirt and put them in.''
Behind Hurdle, Sun Kim, 54, of Newport News pulls her 25-year-old son's dirty shorts, towels, and shirts out of two hefty trash bags about as big as she is. She was only visiting, but his apartment was so messy that she started cleaning. Before she knew it, she was at Overton's.
Christopher May, 24, wishes she was his mom. He hates doing his laundry.
``I never had to do it growing up - my mom always did it for me,'' May says. ``Every chance I get I take home all my laundry. She doesn't mind.''
Yeah, right.
In his tight little fist, 3-year-old Traveon Williams offers his mommy a Cheeto. With her inch-long sparkling silver nails, Paula Williams sets it on top of the table and goes back to folding T-shirts and baby yellow sheets speckled with brown leaves.
She folds five loads of laundry as her son dances around her feet. He pats his orange-covered hands on her thigh. She can't wash them because there isn't a bathroom. Which he'll need soon.
She'll have to take him down the street to the Burger King where he'll beg for fries.
She waits 20 minutes and opens up the dryer. Her clothes are still wet. She moves them to another dryer.
Across the way, there's less going on.
Stephen Skrapits lounges with arms spread out on the back rest. He's hungry.
``I can't wait to get out of here.'' he says settling back on the ripped mauve couch cushion. ``This is one of my least favorite places to visit.''
He comes every week.
``If I had it my way I'd just buy new clothes,'' he says.
But right now, as a stage hand for the opera, he doesn't have that kind of cash.
So he'll be back next week.
A week, two weeks, three weeks may go by for the rest. But they'll all be back, too. ILLUSTRATION: COLOR PHOTOS BY WENDY GROSSMAN by CNB