February 1, 2020
Igor’s Twenty Four Hour Lounge and Laundromat
Faubourg Livaudais, New Orleans, Louisiana
Wilbo thought about visiting Bekka for a month in Streator. Streator, like New York City, had clean water delivered right to the household tap. The air probably breathed easier because it was cleansed by prairie rain. Even better, the Vermillion River flowed along the western border, making its way down to the Illinois River near Jonesville. Bekka and Wilbo, feeling adventurous, could lose an entire day floating in kayaks down to the Illinois. Although, since neither she nor he owned a truck or van, the two would have to leave their kayaks to float down the Illinois to the Mississippi River.
Now Wilbo found the Sandy Ford Canoe Launch, not far from Bloomington Street, on a little crik that just came up from the ground a few miles east. Couldn’t find the name of the crik, but the map suggests one could put in and paddle down to the mighty Vermilion River. Serious, would enough water be flowing to keep a kayak from scraping on the bottom? It looked mighty narrow. He loved studying maps and noticed the water treatment plant and a thick wood crossed by a path. Maybe if everyone in town flushed their toilets in unison it would raise the creek enough for two kayaks to reach the big river?
He looked it up. A half hour walk on Sunday up South Bloomington Street and the Episcopal Church made one welcome for the 8:30 AM service. He didn’t know if Bekka worked Sunday morning. If she made the walk with him and sat by him in the pews, surely the members of the congregation might surmise that something was passing between she and him. As best as he could tell, Heidi Haverkamp led the congregation, and you would think a woman would understand that “come as you are, all are welcome” means that two people who walk in together wouldn’t raise a blink.
Not that any of the established couples would cluck tongues. Most Episcopals churches have barely enough people in the pews to do all the scripture readings and pass the communion plate. Two people walking in the big red wooden door swung open wide would be made very welcome. It might be seen as the big turnaround in attendance. Wilbo made a note of a picture that promised a free lunch on a Saturday. The picture was posted in 2012, but maybe the free lunch tradition had lasted eight years to this day?
He wondered how the day might pass with Bekka in one room and Wilbo in another and a couch and an oven and a coffee pot shared between them. Ideally, Wilbo would get up at around the same time as Bekka and make her coffee before she walked through the shrubbery to the Phillips 66. He would shower at night so she could make her toilet in the morning.
He would leave at the same time so she could lock the door behind her. No sense giving a key to a man known for losing keys. The same walk up South Bloomington would take Wilbo to the library, where he could write for the morning and look for the perfect gig in the afternoon. Maybe take a turn about the old buildings of downtown Streator and sit on a bench near the river, shiver and nibble a vegemite sandwich and sip coffee from the Thermos she had filled up that morning.
Maybe he could make himself useful by helping build the Airbnb business. He could wash the bed clothing once he found the laundromat, launder the towels, meet the new guests. One of those laundry baskets on rollers would make hauling linens and towels tolerable. Best Wash Laundromat looks as if a bomb blew up and knocked off all the signage. The reviews have little to say that encourages patronage. Maybe the Phillips 66 has a washer and a dryer and the boss man wouldn’t mind a few extra loads.
After a week of walking around, he would know what to put in a visitor’s guide. He might even sleep on the couch just so Bekkahad more variety in her guests, all three rooms open to backpapers from Germany and retirees from Ottawa and speculators looking for cheap old buildings to turn into artists lofts. Streator looks like the entire downtown has twenty or thirty old brownstones ready for gentrification.
Wilbo really scratched his head when he saw a building on Bridge Street called the Streator Incubator. No wonder Bekka had taken in a stray chicken because the bird had fled the experiments at the Streator Incubator? He dug in and learned that the National Guard Armory had been turned into a place where people could start businesses building robots or flying drones or even writing cool software, such as TikTok. It had a full court and hoops for basketball, judging from the pictures, perfect for tech and TEDx types who wanted to blow off steam waiting for the next round of ideas to hatch.
Wilbo wondered about the evenings, as the dark filled the windows of Bekka's home. She would need time to reach out to her far flung family and friends, a world kept in touch by her messages. Would the two find a few minutes to sit on the couch and talk about their day? Maybe a circle of writers, new and old friends, would gather at the table, write together and then take turns reading the week’s works in progress? Just like water flows from the taps in Streator just like it does in downtown New York City, so does the language work when words are applied with ink to paper.
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