Sunday evenings are a necessary evil. It’s time to do my laundry. I have done my research and discovered the “Coinless Laundry” on Indian School was rated “Best of Phoenix” by New Times and so each week I grab my dirty clothes bag, a box of soap and off I go on my quest for clean. This particular venue has a south of the border flavor so on the way I stop by Filiberto’s to pick up a couple of cheese enchiladas to eat while I watch the show.

The parking lot is always crowded with pickup trucks, cars with cracked windshields, assorted small children, radio-controlled toys and a sprinkling of homeless people along the edges. I am lucky and got a laundry cart as I was going in. I quickly drop my laundry, dinner, a Pepsi and my book into the cart.

The show starts early as a tall, middle-aged man glances at the massive computer book in my cart and warns, “Visual Basic is dead.” I stop and look at him. He has the look of a lost soul who doesn’t know he’s lost. Salt and pepper hair, white mustache, black shirt and pants with a couple of white pens and note cards in his shirt pocket: an ancient computer nerd. “Visual Basic is dead,” he repeats pointing to my book. Okay, I confess, it takes one to know one but how do you respond to this kind of conversation starter?

“Was it a lingering illness?”

Did he want to warn me of some dire future? Was he a modern prophet, an oracle perhaps? Or maybe he was lonely and needed a kindred spirit to confide in. I acted as if I didn’t hear him and pushed on looking for an empty washer. Actually there are only two kinds of washers in public laundry mats: those that are broken and those that are about to break. Down one row and up another, past the little hand-lettered signs “out of order” I finally found two likely candidates. One had the lid open and while the other was shut, the orange light, “Operating” was off. I gingerly lifted the lid, discovered it was empty and claimed my prize.

Sorting laundry has always been a mystery for me. Some people sort by fabric: cotton, rayon, perma-press. Others sort by color: whites, darks and mulattoes. I sort by this machine and that machine. That task accomplished, I push random buttons, rip the top off the detergent and pour in the contents. Then with a prayer, I insert my “coinless card.” Should the gods smile on my offering, water begins to pour into the machine. If on the other hand, I have sins to atone for, the machine drains all of the money from my card and does nothing. My clothes sit there salted with Tide.

In attrition, I must find Our Lady of the Laundry Mat, confess my sins and beg her indulgence. This is not an easy task. Often she has cloistered herself in the closet. To summons her I must ring the bell. Once, quickly, but no one comes. A second time I press the bell, this time my finger lingers a little longer. The congregation begins to stare at me. I assume the position of penitence, head bowed, looking at the floor. I urgently ring the bell a third time. The high priestess materializes in front of me and slaps my hand away from the ringer. A stream of Latin incantations comes from her mouth.

“Que? Habla English?” I murmur, and then motion for her to follow me. Along the way we are joined by a parade of worshipers. Children, curious old women, a couple of suspicious looking teenage boys, their heads wrapped in bandanas and from the look of the hang of their pants, I’d judge they were plumbers in training. We arrive at my machine and our Lady of the Laundry Mat looks at me with this incredulous glare. She seems to say, “You idiot. All of these machines are obviously broken. Don’t you see the signs I carefully handcrafted?”

I open the lid, look pleadingly at her and shrug my shoulders. A hush falls over the crowd. Our Lady pulls a new cash card from the folds of her faded maroon vestments, crosses herself and pushes it into the errant washer. With a snap of her wrist she whips it out rolling her eyes and shouting. Water gushes forth from the machine and the crowd bursts forth in praise and adoration. A miracle! A miracle! She leads her flock away beaming.

Me? A little tear rolls down my cheek as I wave good-bye to the teenagers who are walking away with my Pepsi and enchiladas. A little old lady has my laundry cart and the prophet hands me my book. “Visual Basic is dead,” he repeats sternly.