The next morning, I woke up early, the laundry still fresh on my mind, and wandered into the basement groggily and opened the dryer to find my clothes still wet.

What the hell was that?

I knew I had inserted the right amount; I knew it had started its work. Had it stopped sometime in the middle?

I had no idea what had gone wrong, and I had no quarters to experiment further. My wet clothes spent the Sunday sitting in a corner of my apartment.

By Sunday night, my spirits had risen somewhat, and with a fresh supply of quarters, I went down to the basement again and gave it another go. It had to be the same dryer, because the other one was in use. I put my clothes in and fed it a dollar. Soon I had the satisfaction of seeing it humming and whirring. I went back home and returned forty-five minutes later to see that the machine was still going strong. Ah! My clothes would soon be dry.

Yeah, sure.

The next morning, I woke up early again, went to the basement again, and found my clothes. Wet.

Now, what in the name of the sixty-four gods was the damn machine doing all those ninety-nine minutes? My clothes weren’t damp, they were wet, as if you had rinsed it and squeezed the water out. And no, I’m pretty damn sure this machine was the dryer. I saw the letters Commercial Dryer written on it clearly enough.

What a moronic dryer! I would use some stronger terms here if the dryer could actually understand them. Dryer, if you’re reading this, know that there are people who would love to wield a baseball bat on your person. This is not just about the dollars you ate; it’s about your lack of principles and that anti-social streak in your behavior that even jail-time could not cure.

Still, I’m an optimist. I dumped my clothes into a different dryer and it’s going at them now. Just to be sure, I’ve taken out some of the heavier stuff and put it on the sofa to dry.

At least the warm sunlight can be relied upon, if and when it makes an appearance.