BUBBLIN' BUBBLIN'

A couple of years ago my friend Scotty came over to play a season on Madden and noticed the three foot Leaning Tower of Laundry piled up in the corner of my bedroom. I hate doing laundry.

Scotty: "Dude, how often do you wash your clothes?"
Me: "I usually wait until I have to pole vault over them to get into bed."
Scotty: "You should drop that shit off at Bubbleland."

Bubbleland?

Me: "Huh?"
Scotty: "Bubbleland. Eighty cents a pound. These little Puerto Rican and Mexican ladies wash, dry, and fold everything up for you. Done in 5 hours, sometimes less. And they're open 24 hours."
Me: "No shit?"
Scotty: "No shit."
Me: "What about sticky bed sheets?"
Scotty: "Sure."
Me: "Skidmark underwear?"
Scotty: "Dude, they use rubber gloves. You can't faze them."

Good enough for me. Some people may find it odd to have a complete stranger handling your boxers, but I could care less as long as they get them clean.

I left Scotty to try and swing a trade for Marshall Faulk and headed over to the Pee Wee's Playhouse of laundromats six blocks away.

The exterior facade and interior walls of Bubbleland are splashed in day-glo pastels, and a logo of a bubble with a smiley face is everywhere. The cashiers don't handle any money. You have to purchase a Bubbleland card (kind of like the debit card at a Dave & Busters or Gameworks) and put cash on it ala the fare card machine at an L station.

I dropped my 55 pounds of clothes, towels and sheets on the scale, signed my name and number and was on my way. Four hours later I get the call:

"Hallo Meester Brian, jor laundree es readeeee."

Lupe, you had me at "hallo".

These days the women of Bubbleland like to fight over me when I come by. Depending on who is working I'm greeted as "my huzban", "my boyfren", or "Papi". They give rib crushing hugs and tips on good Mexican restaurants. When I was gimping around on crutches last winter they even carried my baskets to and from the car for me.

If they served beer I'd hang out there all the time.