The front door of my apartment is pretty basic: aluminum painted white, with a reflective sticker declaring the unit number, 6.
I've walked in and out of that door millions of times over the past six-going-on-seven years. I guess I have a pretty intimate relationship with it. It feels like a part of me in the same way my old hoodie does.
Here on the western side of Washington state, we have a Mediterranean climate, which means warm, rainy winters. The ground swells with all the moisture and then subsides in the dry summer. This old building rises and falls with the ground, and the door frame aligns itself differently through the season.
Which means the latch on the door matches up to the frame better in the summertime than the winter. In the winter, there is so much pressure on the latch that it has broken the doorknob.
Really. That pressure worked over time to accomplish that, I'm sure. But it doesn't give me a lot of confidence in the foundation that the house moves that much.
Or maybe that's normal in this type of climate? I'm from Indiana, so I wouldn't know. Anyone else have this experience?
My (then) new, purple laundry bag at the front door of my apartment in Hoquiam, Wash. I chose this prompt for my weekend freewrite because I remembered taking this photo a couple years ago.
I did not remember the laundry bag being in the photo. Seeing it reminded me of the series of photos I took that day, with my laundry bag, intending to write a whimsical tale to go along with them.
It seems like I did write a story, but for the life of me I can't remember what it was about. The story that follows below, with those original photos, is brand new.
Mr. Purple's Day Out
One Sunday not very long ago, a purple laundry bag was hanging out at Speedy Wash in Hoquiam, waiting for some clothes to dry.
Mr. Purple, as the purple laundry bag was known, hoisted himself up on the washer so that he could look out the window. My goodness, he thought, it is a fine day. Just look at that sunshine on good ol' Riverside Bridge.
He took a peek around to see if the master was watching. Nope. The master could not be seen. Probably outside smoking while I have to launguish here in this dingy laundromat.
Daggone it, Mr. Purple thought. It's not fair that he gets to enjoy the sun while I suffer in here. I work just as hard as he does.
I'm gonna make a break for it.
Now, Mr. Purple didn't have any legs, or arms, or any other ordinary means of locomotion. But, as they say, where there's a will, there's a way.
By sheer force of will, Mr. Purple made it out the door into the sunlight. After about a block, the force of will became tiring, so he rested in front of the bus depot.
He didn't rest for too long, because this couple and their little dog kept giving him the eye. Time to move on, he thought.
A little ways down the street he happened upon an art gallery.
There, Ms. Pop Can joined him. Mr. Purple tried to open the door for her, but even though the sign said open, it wouldn't. So in the end he just looked through the glass at the wonders inside, and described what he could for Ms. Pop Can, who was too short to see over the sill.
Ms. Pop Can liked the way he talked. She asked him to come back to hers for a bit, but Mr. Purple wasn't done being free. He headed on down the road to Main Street, where he found the perfect spot to hang out and watch the world go by.
Mr. Purple loved being outdoors in the fresh air and sunshine. But he realized he would have to go back. The clothes would soon be dry, and he was a laundry bag. He was made to carry clothes for the master.
He put it off as long as he could, but eventually Mr. Purple went back to the laundromat and let himself get loaded up for the trip home.
On the way home, the master, seeing it was such a nice day and appreciating all Mr. Purple's hard work, allowed him to take a break in the park.
Sitting there in the warmth, Mr. Purple contemplated his day. Someday, he told himself, I'll do that again.
Yessir. I'll be free for good someday.
I'm not gonna be no laundry bag forever.